


Exit, Pursued by a Fox

by SnarkHorse



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Five Nights at Freddy's - Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 39,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4476728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkHorse/pseuds/SnarkHorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Work at Freddy's," they said.<br/>"It will be fun," they said.<br/>"You've got nothing to worry about," they said.<br/>"Especially not the terrifying-animatronic-fox-pirate-thing that definitely wants to kill you," they said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mike Schmidt

"Hello, hello. Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, a magical place for kids and grown-ups alike. Blah, blah, blah. How can I help you?"

Laura Houndstooth hated her job. More specifically, she hated whichever bastard it was that had the bright idea of appointing her with the task of handling customers over the phone. Whoever said that the customer was always right had never worked at the good-for-nothing hellhole that was Freddy Fazbear's Pizza.

Not only that. She hated every inch of the eyesore of a restaurant from the flamboyant purple walls and sticky floors to the tacky, low-budget stars that dangled from the ceiling like deformed spiders. The children made more ruckus than cicadas during mating season. And if she had to listen to "Pizza Party Pals" one more time, she was sure she would go insane.

But she never quit.

Laura knew that she was the worst employee in the pizzeria; a title which she relished. The past four years had consisted of showing up late to work and countless dress-code violations. The janitor was still trying to scrub the inappropriate drawings from off of the walls in the women's restrooms. She was almost offended that she hadn't been given an award.

Any other manager would've fired her on the spot. But despite all of the hell she'd given Fazbear Entertainment, they never let her go. It wasn't out of fondness, but out of obligation. And it only made her hate the restaurant even more if that was even possible.

Despite the noise, the restaurant was only a little over half-full today. She grimaced at a couple of little boys ferociously devouring the rubbery-looking pizza. It was difficult for her to look at their sauce-covered faces and greedy eyes without being reminded of werewolves feasting on their kill.

RIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIING!

A long-suffering groan escaped her lips. It was too early in the week to deal with stupid people.

"Hello, Fazbear's Pizza, a magical place for pizza and stuff." she said all in one breath, her well-practiced cheery tone almost mechanical.

"Hello. We had my son's birthday party here last week, and your pizza made him sick! He's lactose intolerant and we want a full refund-"

"That's not a question." Laura droned, promptly hanging up. If the woman wanted five star customer service, she should have called Horace Honey Badger's Honey Burgers.

RIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIING!

"Is this Freddy Fazbear's Pizza?"

"No, this is Laura."

Click.

 

Around 5:00, she took notice of two rows of preset tables which had been roped off and uniformly lined with tell-tale party hats.

Two fucking birthday parties. On the same night. The one day that the day shift guard was on vacation.

It wasn't the thought of having to deal with at least twenty screaming children that made her blood boil. It was the dimwitted parents who dropped off their kids for hours on end and expected the employees to babysit. Freddy Fazbear's Pizza had a dodgy track record when it came to taking responsibility for the safety of its customers and employees.

RIIIIIIING—

"For fuck's sake," she grumbled, practically tearing the phone from the receiver. She inhaled sharply before answering.

"Hello, hello. Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, a fantasy place where pizza and magic come to life and shit."

"Uhhh...hi. I-I uh, saw an advertisement for a job opening for a night watchman in the paper. Is—is that position still available?" the speaker had a voice that was somewhat boyish.

"As a matter of fact...yes," she said slowly, her lip curling. "It's been free for...two weeks now."

The last idiot who'd signed up for the job had quit after the first night, rambling on about the restaurant being haunted. Laura may or may not have put the idea into his head.

"Great! When can I come in for an interview?" She could almost hear the anxiety in his voice melting away.

"Whenever you're free."

"Cool! I'll be right over then!"

"Perfect. By the way...what's your name?"

"Oh! Mike. Mike Schmidt."

"And how do you spell that?" She scrambled under the counter for a pen and scrap of paper, somehow managing to keep the phone wedged between her shoulder and chin.

"S-C-H-M-I-D-T."

"And that...is all I needed. Thank you."

"You're welcome, uhhh..." he trailed off.

"Laura." she said quickly.

"Got it. I'll be there in uh, fifteen minutes."

"Don't mention it. Take your time. Later."

"Thanks!"

As soon as the call ended, Laura wasted no time in rummaging through the drawers until she found the blank nametags and a permanent marker.

 

A young man that could only be Mike Schmidt stumbled through the door precisely fifteen minutes later.

He blinked rapidly, as if trying to allow time for his eyes to adjust to the unexpected brightness of the room. His thin cheeks heated up in apology whenever he accidentally made eye contact with one of the children.

"That'll be $22.50. Thanks for coming. Thanks for leaving." Laura said, practically shoving the receipt at the disgruntled mother on the other side of the counter. The woman let out a small hmph, before stalking off with her children in tow.

"How can I help you?..." she glanced at the newcomer out of the corner of her eye as he approached.

He was a spindly slip of a boy with scruffy brown hair that stuck up every which way, giving him the appearance of a walking paintbrush with unruly bristles. Was he really wearing a graphic t-shirt to a job interview?

"You must be Laura," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners like old denim when he smiled. He extended a hand. "I'm Mike."

She just stared at him. She honestly couldn't tell if his awkwardness was endearing or just plain annoying.

He slowly withdrew his hand and rubbed the back of his neck, smiling uncomfortably.

"Can you please tell me where the manager's office is?" he asked, recovering quickly. He quickly added, "I-if it isn't any trouble."

She wordlessly jabbed a finger in the direction of the east hall.

"Uh, okay. Thanks, I guess. I'd better get a move on then. Wish me luck." he gave Laura a jittery smile before disappearing down the dark hallway.

"Mmhmm."

 

As expected, he reappeared hardly ten minutes later, looking like a child who found out that Christmas came early.

"Feast your eyes upon the new night watchman!" he exclaimed, gesturing grandly like a game show host.

She grimaced. No one was proud of working at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza.

"How do I look?" he pulled on his new security guard jacket, which was the same violent shade of purple as the walls. He seemed blissfully unaware of the dirty looks being aimed in his direction. "Pretty snazzy, huh?"

"Sure."

"Well, tonight's the big night. I'm gonna need plenty of shut-eye. Gotta make a good first impression." Mike rocked back and forth on the heels of his old sneakers.

"Well, don't let me stop you." she replied offhandedly, opening a magazine.

After a couple of minutes of silence (well, as quiet as it gets when there are over two dozen children shrieking in a relentless cacaphony of sugar-madness), she slowly looked up.

He was still standing there, his hands jammed into his pockets and the corners of his mouth lifting into a small, uncertain, but hopeful smile.

"What?" she asked with a drawn-out sigh, planting her palms on her hips.

Mike tugged at the collar of his Spiderman tee like a shy schoolboy. "Uh, I was wondering...would you...like to uh, I don't know, go out for coffee or something-"

"Why?" 

"Well, you uh, y-you seem nice-" He was cut off mid-babble by a derisive snort from Laura.

Nice? The only remotely sunny thing about her was the color of her hair. Mike was either idealistic to a fault or he was one of those guys that couldn't find a date and wound up having to take their sister to prom. 

"No, no, no! I don't mean it like that!" he insisted, going pink in the cheeks. "I meant as friends!" 

She responded without thinking twice. "Not interested." 

Mike blinked as if she had just poured a pitcher of cold water over his head. That probably would have been a bit kinder.

"O-okay, uh, never mind! Bad timing, I guess. Maybe some other time. See you around." he smiled weakly, turning to leave.

She sighed again, seeing that she'd have to let him down the hard way.

"By the way, I hope you like the nametag. Made it just for you." she said coolly, her eyes never leaving her magazine.

Mike furrowed his brow before examining his nametag:

Hello! My name is Mike Dick Fingers Schmidt.

He stared at it long and hard before crumpling it up and flinging it to the checkered floor.

"This is exactly why you kids are going to a private school," said an unamused father to his two children who were snickering quietly.

Laura could feel him staring at her for what seemed like ages. When she finally looked up, she got a fleeting glimpse of a purple jacket disappearing through the glass door. She knew she was being harsh, but she didn't want to give the poor boy false hope. It was for the best.

At first glance, Mike Schmidt didn't seem any different from the rest of the stupid college boys that preceded him. But something about that smile gave her a bad feeling that he was different. Stubborn. Optimistic.

Optimism would get that boy killed tonight if he wasn't careful.


	2. The Neverending Voicemail

The silence that engulfed Freddy Fazbear's Pizza was almost suffocating. Mike Schmidt couldn't recall ever visiting a library that was this deathly quiet. Without the raucous screams and laughter, the place seemed so forlorn. Not a single party hat or eating utensil was out of place.

"Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse," he chuckled softly, wandering past the rows of tables. He still had fifteen minutes before his first shift started, so he figured he would kill some time.

Mike's job interview (if one could call it that) had hardly lasted ten minutes. He wasn't even sure if he actually met any of the qualifications. If there were any.

"Do you have any experience in surveillance?" asked the manager, a mousy-looking man with a voice that was blander than oatmeal. A small plaque on the desk bore the name "Arnold Newton."

"I was a pet sitter for my neighbor's goldfish once." Mike replied meekly.

He had made sure to conveniently leave out the part about the goldfish dying after two days. Poor Mr. Bubbles was too good for this harsh, sinful world.

"Are there any unique skills you have that could come in handy?" Newton yawned from behind his sparsely decorated desk. 

"Uhhh..." he rubbed the back of his neck and bit his lip in concentration. Unique skills?

"Well...I used to play tennis." he said sheepishly. Newton's humdrum expression didn't change. Mike couldn't tell if it was because he wasn't making a good first impression or if the man was that genuinely bored with his own job.

"Anything else?"

What else was he good at? He could drive stick shift. He could touch his nose with his tongue. He had been a regional spelling bee champion for five straight years. He'd played Tony in a community theater production of West Side Story. He was good with kids. He was an excellent kisser...

The manager suddenly cleared his throat, his thin lips set in a line so tight that they seemed nonexistent.

"H-how much of that did I say out loud?" Mike asked awkwardly, sinking lower and lower nto his chair. Smooth move, Schmidt.

"All of it."

"I—I'm not a pedophile, I swear!" he blurted, his ears burning bright pink. "Just—just forget that you heard that last thing. I tend to uh, think aloud sometimes."

"Sure thing, musical theater boy." the older man said snidely.

"Hey! That doesn't make me any less of a man! I'm confident about my sexuality! And I'm not gay, if that's what you were implying." Mike said hotly, before quickly adding in a more mellow tone, "Not that there's anything wrong with that."

Newton regarded him steadily for several moments, drumming his fingers before finally sighing, "You're hired."

Before Mike could even break out into a mental victory dance, a pen and a small mountain of forms were promptly slid across the desk. Oh, joy. Rapture. Paperwork.

"Uh, what exactly will I be uh, guarding?" he asked as he scrawled his signature for the umpteenth time.

"You'll find out for yourself tonight. A word of friendly advice though: don't ever leave your office for anything. But do whatever floats your boat. It's your funeral."

He must have been joking.

Mike sat in one of the chairs, and glanced at the now deserted prize counter. If scaring the new guy was the restaurant's idea of a welcome, then he sincerely hoped that Laura Houndstooth wasn't the welcoming committee. The surly-faced cashier was honestly the most unfriendly person he'd ever met.

Mike had a good sense of humor, and the 'personalized' name tag was the sort of joke one of his buddies would pull. And he would've laughed under those circumstances, but the cashier didn't strike him as someone that liked to joke. Or smile for that matter. He liked to give people the benefit of a doubt. Maybe she was having a bad day at work and her way of venting was taking out her frustration on the first person she saw.

Did he do something wrong? He couldn't recall saying anything that could be taken as offensive. He'd only known her for a grand total of ten minutes. Laura's rejection stung a little more than it should, and he couldn't pinpoint exactly why it bothered him. He had always been clumsy and bashful around women. Especially after...

As if on cue, the lights in the dining area flickered off, leaving Mike sitting in the darkness with nothing but a sea of party hats and streamers for company.

That would be the universe's gentle way of telling him to stop daydreaming, get off his ass and get to work.

 

He settled into a mildly uncomfortable chair that squeaked like a mouse being tortured every time that he moved. The office was tiny, cramped, and very...well, grey.

A few mediocre children's drawings and a poster provided the only splash of color. Mike studied the latter. Underneath the word "Celebrate!" was a trio of the strangest looking characters he had ever seen. He didn't remember any of the Chuck E. Cheese animatronics having articulated knees. Front and center was a dapper-looking bear who clutched a microphone in one of his large baseball glove-like paws. He was flanked by a rabbit and a...duck? No, chicken. It wore a bib emblazoned with the words "Let's eat!" Wait, were chickens supposed to have teeth?

He ranked them somewhere between Furbies and Frida Kahlo paintings in terms of creepiness.

His eyes flitted towards the ceiling.

"Jeez, does anyone ever dust in here?" he muttered as he counted four cobwebs.

There were two doorways and large windows on either side of him. He didn't recall the hallways being so dark on his way to the office. Each door had buttons marked 'door' and 'light'. Mike cautiously pressed one and a heavy guillotine-like door dropped down. He pressed the button again and brought the door back up. He flickered the lights a few times before testing the doors again.

Aside from the drone-like whir of the fan and the buzzing lights, the pizzeria was silent as a tomb.

12:00 AM

A high-pitched rattling sort of sound came crashing through the quiet like a bullet. Mike jumped slightly, the chair squealing in protest. It was just the phone. He was already getting himself worked up over the most inconsequential things.

He eyed the ancient phone with the wariness of someone approaching a potentially venomous snake. It could easily be a telemarketer or some kind of prank call. Just as he reached out towards the receiver, the call went straight to voicemail.

"Hello, h-hello?" a good-natured male voice began, crackling pleasantly over the phone like milk on Rice Krispies. "I wanted to record a message for you to help you get settled in on your first night. Um, I actually worked in that office before you..."

The tension in his shoulders slowly ebbed away bit by bit. He'd only just started the night shift, but hearing the voice of another human being had never felt so comforting.

"...So, I know it can be a bit overwhelming, but I'm here to tell you there's nothing to worry about. Uh, you'll do fine! So, let's just focus on getting you through your first week. Okay, so first, let's get you acquainted with the monitor and the doors..."

Maybe this night would go by faster than he thought. This man seemed nice enough and maybe he had some helpful words of wisdom for his successor.

 

3:00 AM

"Are you ever going to shut up?" Mike muttered, propping his head up with one hand.

'Phone Guy,' as he had christened him, had prattled on for three damn hours about the mechanics of the monitor in vivid detail. He had never encountered a person who could talk for hours on end about things that don't matter. Was he actually human or was he some sort of living instruction manual? He was surprised that the man hadn't recited the instructions in Japanese. It had only taken Mike about ten minutes to figure out how the monitor worked, and he'd already flipped through all eleven cameras at least five times.

He could think of several things shorter than the Neverending Voicemail. Like listening to an audio book of Les Misérables, or the two year hiatus after Series 2 of Sherlock, or the...no. Not even this phone call was as long as the wait for Kingdom Hearts III.

"Uh, the animatronic characters here do get a bit quirky at night, but do I blame them? No! If I were forced to sing those same stupid songs for twenty years and I never got a bath? I'd probably be a bit irritable at night, too..."

He raised an eyebrow. 'Quirky' was an adjective one used to describe an offbeat romantic-comedy starring Zooey Deschanel.

"So, remember, these characters hold a special place in the hearts of children and we need to show them a little respect, right? Okay."

He checked CAM 1A, the slightly grainy image of the show stage flickering to life on the screen. The trio of characters stood motionless, their faces in profile as they gazed stoically at a point just past the camera. Something about the shadows and the way that the moody lighting hit their faces struck Mike as being unintentionally funny. He half-expected one of them to start reciting the "Life is but a walking shadow" soliloquy.

"So, just be aware, the characters do tend to wander a bit," Phone Guy continued, speaking with the unhurried pace of a tour guide on an African safari. "They're left in some kind of 'free-roaming' mode at night. Something about their servos locking up if they get turned off for too long."

He smiled, reaching for the monitor. "Oh! So it's like Toy Story!"

"They used to be allowed to walk around during the day, too. But then there was the Bite of '97."

Mike's finger hovered above the screen, his smile still frozen on his face. Yep. Just like Toy Story.

The office suddenly felt too quiet and too small. He could almost hear the sound of a needle scratching a record.

"Y-yeah. They don't tell you these things when you sign up," Phone Guy said, coughing once before reverting back to his unfailingly cheery demeanor. "But hey! First night should be a breeze. I'll chat with you tomorrow. Good night!"

Click.

Mike stared silently at the phone. He blinked once. Twice. Three times. Then a laugh slowly escaped his lips, a hollow, awkward sound.

"So, basically, I'm trapped in a creepy restaurant with a bunch of overgrown Neopets that like to play Hungry Hungry Hippos with their victims." he said, leaning forward and hiding his face in his hands.

The next couple of hours were going to be fun.


	3. Curtain Call

4:00 AM

It's kind of difficult to lose a giant, purple rabbit.

Mike Schmidt had somehow managed to lose a giant, fucking purple rabbit. He could see it in the book of world records, and it was a milestone he did not want to be known for.

He stared intently at the monitor, silently willing the elusive bunny to magically reappear on the stage. He was grateful that the bear and chicken had yet to move from their spots.

It was perfectly normal for children to be afraid of finding a monster under their beds. But all it took to remedy that fear was a few words of reassurance from their parents and a quick glance to find nothing but a few dust bunnies or the occasional forgotten sock. Mike wasn't as easily placated. Just because it wasn't under the bed didn't mean that said monster wasn't real. In his mind, it meant that the monster could be anywhere. It could be creeping down the hallway, swimming in the bathtub, rummaging through the fridge and eating all of the yogurt, or hiding in the closet downstairs where they stored all the Christmas decorations.

His offbeat fear of a monster not being under the bed was finally justified. Take that, childhood therapist.

"This is the Easter egg hunt from Hell," Mike said, checking Cam 1A for what felt like the millionth time in the past hour. No sign of a tell-tale pair of ears or a fluffy tail. Finding it would have been much easier if the lights were on.

RIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIING!

"Again?!" he groaned as he flipped to the kitchen. He was met with a dark screen and the words 'Camera disabled. Audio only.' 

"Hello again! I almost forgot to mention a couple of important things," Phone Guy said, a hint of urgency coloring his cheery tone. "I'll keep it short and sweet. First, I want to emphasize the importance of using your door lights. There are blind spots in your camera views, a-and those blind spots happen to be right outside your doors. So if you can't find something...or someone on the cameras, check the door lights. You might only have a few seconds to react, so you need to be on your toes.

"Not that you would be in any danger, of course! I'm not implying that." he added hastily.

"Of course not," Mike retorted, flickering the light to his left. Nothing there but a few drawings and those cheap-looking stars hanging from the ceiling. The stars seemed to be a lame attempt at brightening the frankly dingy hallways. It was like buying a new chandelier for a haunted house.

"One last thing. Remember to close those doors only if absolutely necessary. Gotta conserve power," Phone Guy said, pausing as if allowing time for his words to sink in.

Mike's breath hitched as he slowly peeked at the monitor. Lo and behold, in the bottom left corner of the screen was a power indicator.

30%

Oh, shit.

"Well, have fun! Nighty-night!"

"Hey! Wait-"

Click.

 

5:30 AM

'Work at Freddy's,' they said.

'It will be fun,' they said. 

"Why didn't I apply to Horace Honey Badger's Honey Burgers?" Mike lamented to the desk fan.

He liked to say that he didn't apply because he didn't want to flip burgers. It sounded a whole lot manlier than "I'm secretly terrified of badgers."

Without Phone Guy's incessant rambling, Mike was suddenly aware of every individual sound. The whole building seemed to groan and creak. The And there was a sound that vaguely reminded him of the ominous tinkling of wind chimes just before a storm. The light in the office was suddenly too harsh, and the darkened doorways looked like bottomless pits.

"It's me."

The young man's muscles stiffened.

"Hello? Someone out there?" he called, licking his lips.

Silence.

He cautiously flickered both lights, but nothing was there. It must have been his imagination playing tricks on him. Yeah, that was it...right?

"Pull yourself together, Mike." he muttered as he went to check the backstage camera."You've still got thirty minutes to go, and jumping at every little sound isn't going to get you through the first night. Just stay positive-LADYSMITH BLACK MAMBAZO!"

Well, he finally found the rabbit. He had almost dropped the monitor upon seeing the image that had greeted him. He took a deep breath, allowing himself a moment for his nerves to calm the heck down before looking again.

The rabbit's face was mere inches away from the camera. Its eyes had vanished, leaving two minuscule pinpricks of light. Once he'd gotten past how creepy it looked the first time, Mike couldn't help but laugh at how ridiculous the bunny looked. He was either terrified or he was delirious to the point of finding everything funny. Most likely the former. He had a tendency of trying to laugh it off when he was afraid.

"Alright, Mr. Demille, I'm ready for my close-up," he said in a husky voice before switching to Cam 1C, which was labelled 'Pirate Cove.' The image of spangled curtains and an out-of-order sign filled the screen. To Mike's great amusement, he discovered that the out-of-order sign was also decorated with stars that matched the curtains.

Whatever was in there was hidden behind a wall of cheap purple fabric. There was a slight gap, but it was too dark to see inside. Mike had a strange feeling that he needed to keep a close eye on Cam 1C. Maybe if he checked it constantly, it would discourage whatever was waiting inside from leaving.

After five minutes of staring at Pirate Cove, the image on the screen abruptly disappeared. The camera seemed to be emitting a mechanical sputtering sound.

Mike's eyes widened cartoonishly as he frantically flipped through each camera. Every single one was down.

"Nonononothiscannotbehappeningthiscannotbehappening!" He yelped, his words running together until they were an almost indecipherable blur.

The camera feed was suddenly restored. Mike's heart was tap dancing aggressively in his chest.

Once he'd somewhat regained his composure, he picked up the monitor again.

He sighed shakily when he saw that the rabbit was still backstage. Crisis averted.

Creaaak.

Mike froze. The noise seemed to be coming from the other side of the building. It was quiet, but deliberately slow. Like whoever was making the sound was making a great show of it. And this time he knew it wasn't his mind playing tricks on him. After seven years of community theater, he didn't need to look at the monitor to identify that noise.

It was the unmistakable sound of curtains opening.

Under different circumstances, the sound made him as giddy as a child at Christmas. He had thrived off of the adrenaline that came with performing. His affinity for theater ran in the family. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ever gotten stage fright. But at this moment, the sound made him feel like someone had replaced his blood with freezing water.

The camera! Check the camera! Do something! Anything!

Before Mike could pick up the monitor, another sound hit his ears: a rapid fire clang of something metallic repeatedly hitting the linoleum floor.

Like someone running in tap shoes. Or feet made of metal.

Mike jumped to his feet and frantically pounded the switch to his left, only relaxing when the door came down with a satisfying thud. He sat down just in time to see a brief blur of something coppery-red shoot past the window. The children's drawings outside fluttered wildly as if a strong gust of wind had blown down the hallway.

The footsteps stopped right outside the door.

"What is that?!" Mike squeaked as he flickered the light. All he could see was the silhouette of two pointy ears. It was definitely an animatronic, and boy, it was tall.

For several excruciatingly long minutes, everything was deadly quiet, like the pizzeria itself was too afraid of breaking the icy silence.

25%

Mike inhaled sharply. Maybe he had a chance at making it to 6:00 AM as long as he didn't check the monitor. Maybe the animatronic would eventually get tired of waiting, and go back to Pirate Cove if-

Bang.

His mouth went dry as the animatronic suddenly pounded its fists once against the door in the same manner when it had opened the curtains. Not particularly loud, and almost experimental. As if it was trying to gauge the reaction it would potentially get out of the security guard. Regardless of its intentions, the robot wasn't getting in anytime soon.

Bang!

It hit the door once again, but with more force than before. Mike glanced at the camera in the West hall, cursing under his breath when he realized the animatronic was in the 'blind spot' that Phone Guy had warned him about. Wait...he'd said something about the doors being the primary source of draining the power. Or something along those lines.

Mike frowned searchingly at the screen. If this animatronic was as big a threat as he suspected, then why was it only hitting the door once instead of pummeling it relentlessly?

BANG! BANG!

The animatronic slammed both fists against the door with full force, causing the window to shake violently. Mike nearly fell out of his chair, his heart beating against his ribcage like a panicked bird trying to escape. Clutching the monitor for dear life, he checked the power indicator.

9%

Oh.

"Fuck me gently with a chainsaw!" Mike shouted, his voice cracking. So this bastard was going to camp outside the door and drain the power. And he had no way of defending himself if...

He shuddered. He really didn't want to finish that sentence.

Maybe he could reason with it. It seemed to be sentient, but to what degree? Was it even capable of understanding speech or responding? Well, there was only one way to find out.

"Uhhh, h-hi there." Mike began, trying in vain to sound friendly and polite, but the way his voice wobbled just made him sound desperate. He hoped that robots couldn't smell fear.

When the animatronic didn't respond, Mike continued.

"Um, my name's uh, M-Mike Schmidt. New night watchman. But you uh, probably figured that out by now." he laughed nervously, pulling at the color of his sweat-drenched shirt.

Still no response.

"Uh, listen. I uh, don't mean to be rude, but you're uh, kind of wasting the power. I mean you no harm, so could you please-"

BANG!

4%

"What the fuck is your problem, dude?" Mike yelled, clenching his fists so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palms. He took a deep breath before continuing in a convincing facade of a level tone. "This is my first night on the job, and you know what would be great? If you don't kill me. I would really appreciate that. So I'll make you a deal: if you don't bother me, then I won't bother you. What do you say?"

There was a heavy pause. He watched in horror as the power dwindled down to 1%. This was it. He was going to die in a sketchy children's restaurant that smelled of stale pizza, body odor, and desperation. He He shut his eyes tightly and shielded his head with his arms.

6:00 AM.

Ding-dong-ding-dong! Dong-ding-ding-dong!

The ringing seemed to be coming from the monitor. The door was still shut. He slowly lowered his arms and peeked at the screen. To his shock, the power indicator was back to 100%. The sound effect of children cheering accompanied the chiming of the bells

"I made it." he said hoarsely, a tired smile on his face. "First night: success!"

"I wouldn't be gettin' so cocky if I were you." a male voice snarled from the other side of the door.

Every single hair on the back of Mike's neck stood straight up.

"Why?" he finally asked, ignoring his better judgement. It was half out of curiosity, and half out of the fact that he was simply too tired to care.

"Because you didn't outsmart me, you little shit. Spoiler alert: You're not clever. Not brave either. Sheer dumb luck is the only fuckin' reason you're alive right now."

There was no mistaking that the animatronic was a pirate, but it wasn't the ridiculous, slurred dialect that he associated with Captain Jack Sparrow. His tenor voice had a rough, biting quality of an individual defined by hardship and bar fights and cheap rum. Mike placed the accent as being Irish. More specifically, Northern Irish.

He normally would've geeked out if he wasn't so terrified and delirious.

"So you survived one night," the animatronic spat, his words oozing with venom. "Whoop-de-fuckin'-do. So did all the other spineless bilge rats before you. You're just as common and selfish as the rest of 'em. I know your kind, and you don't deserve to call yourselves men."

"Sooo...what's your name?" Mike asked awkwardly.

Even though there was a very heavy metal door separating them, he could almost feel the robot's glare.

"No. Just, no. You don't fuckin' deserve an introduction." the buccaneer said in disgust. "Just know this: if I see your candy ass here again, I will personally drag you from that office, slit open your belly and fill it with candy. Then I'll string you up and leave you hangin' from the ceiling. Then the little ones can beat you senseless till it rains blood and guts and fuckin' Sour Patch Kids. No one's ever seen a human piñata before."

Mike stifled a gasp as a pair of harsh yellow eyes appeared in the window, burning and flickering like lanterns. It was impossible to discern any other features in the shadows.

"Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear."

"Y-yes, sir."

In the blink of an eye, the animatronic had sprinted back down the hallway. Once Mike heard the faint rustle of the curtains shutting, he slowly rose from the squeaky desk chair, grabbed his keys, and calmly left the office. His legs felt like jelly from sitting for so long.

All he knew was he had a date with a hot shower and his bed.


	4. Rub-A-Dub-Dub

When Laura crossed paths with Mike Schmidt again, she'd expected that he would be clutching a resignation letter and muttering about ghosts and killer robots like all of the other idiots before him.

She hadn't anticipated the sight that awaited her upon arriving late to work.

Mike was slowly inching his way around the dining area like a skittish crab, hands awkwardly held behind his back. He hesitated, his eyes flickering uneasily towards the stage. A few children giggled. Then he set his jaw and pushed his sleeves back before marching up the steps, and disappearing through the curtains like a heroic fireman.

She started after him when she heard a moaning sound followed by a high-pitched scream. She whipped around to see a small boy scampering wildly from the room where they kept spare parts for the animatronics. The door snapped shut again. She inwardly groaned. Dealing with the kids was not her problem.

Laura pushed past a couple of pimple-faced preteen boys that were lurking by the door.

"Hey, no fair! You've gotta pay up if you want to go in!" the taller one protested, shaking a jar of quarters under her nose.

"Hate to break it to you, kid. But life ain't fair."

She left the door standing slightly ajar, deliberately ignoring the empty stares of the animatronic heads on the shelves. God, she hated coming back here.

"BOO!"

"Ah, son of a bitch!" Laura yelped, as a small figure wearing a spare Chica head suddenly leapt from the shadows, waving its arms wildly. She could hear loud snickers from outside.

"I'm like, a ghoooost," it warbled in a tinny, high-pitched voice. "Are you like, scaaared?"

In one swift movement, Laura yanked the Chica head off and flung it to the floor, revealing the intruder to be a prissy-looking girl wearing cheap lipgloss and a t-shirt with "Rachel" bedazzled on it.

"I'm positively quaking in my sneakers," she said, folding her arms over her chest. "In case you can't read, the sign says 'employees only.' Unless America's having second thoughts about child labor laws, you're not supposed to be back here. So scram."

"Or what?" Rachel scoffed, tossing her crimped hair over one shoulder. "You're like, not my mom. You don't tell me what to do."

Laura narrowed her eyes. Oh, hell no. She wasn't about to bow down to the mob boss of the Lisa Frank mafia.

"You're right, sweetie. I'm not your mother. I can't tell you what to do."

Rachel puffed out her flat chest and smirked in an I-told-you-so way.

"But I can see to it that you are banned from ever coming back to this restaurant again."

"How?"

"Oh, nothing too severe," Laura drawled, flicking a piece of lint from her shoulder. "I'll just tell the manager that I heard strange noises backstage, and that it definitely wasn't a ghost doing all that moaning and shrieking. If you know what I mean."

The girl's thin face blanched as the underlying message sunk in.

"You wouldn't."

"I'm warning you now, little girl. Don't fuck with me."

At that moment, a hand reached through the crack in the door and flicked the light switch. Laura cringed as the dark room was flooded with harsh fluorescent light.

"Huh. I thought Hobbits normally lived underground." an orotund voice said wryly.

Leaning against the doorframe was a leggy young woman with a face full of freckles and laughing eyes. Fritz motherfucking Smith. The day shift guard who had no concept of what using an inside voice meant.

Laura clenched her teeth in irritation. Only Fritz could manage to make a short joke that also doubled as some sort of geeky reference.

"Oh, look who finally decided to show up and do their damn job." she said, lifting her chin.

"Says the girl who shows up late to work, and leaves her station unattended to play Nancy Drew." Fritz replied with her usual self-important smirk. Laura made a show of using her middle finger to tuck an errant honey-colored strand of hair behind her ear.

"Real cute, munchkin. Now what the slash-fic is going on? You harassing these kids?"

"They're the ones bamboozling kindergarteners out of their lunch money."

"Aw, don't be such a killjoy! I'm sure they didn't mean any harm. You owe these kids an apol-"

Fritz suddenly took great interest in Rachel. Or more specifically, the god-awful pink scrunchie she was wearing on her wrist.

"Where'd you get that?" she asked in a strange voice.

"M-my mom gave it to me," the tween mumbled. "Said it belonged to my sister."

"What's your name?"

"Um, can't you, like, read?" she asked slowly, pointing to her shirt. Fritz's eyes flashed.

"Don't you dare get smart with me, you little Hannah Montana reject. What's your last name?"

"Peck. R-Rachel Peck."

The guard was silent, leering down at the younger girl who fidgeted uncomfortably.

"You're free to go," Fritz said in a borderline begrudging tone. "But if I catch you back here again, I'll tell your parents and management that your little friends were having a lightsaber duel. In your mouth. If you're anything like your sister, I won't be surprised if it becomes a reality."

The two boys jumped aside as she sashayed back into the dining area. Rachel just looked down at her feet, her hands curled into fists and her face burning brighter and pinker than her scrunchie.

"Let's go," she said in a wobbly voice.

"You okay?" the curly-haired boy asked.

"Duh," she responded, her well-practiced smirk back in place. "C'mon, let's blow this popsicle stand."

The boys exchanged looks before scuttling off. As soon as they were gone, she gave Laura a resentful glare.

"Thanks a lot." Rachel muttered before trailing off after her friends.

Laura blinked, trying to process what had just transpired.

She'd had the misfortune of working with Fritz for four years. She was obnoxious, nerdy, loudmouthed and preachy, and never took her own advice. "No swearing in front of the kids. It's fucking unprofessional!" On countless occasions, she would whistle to the tune of "Short People" whenever she walked past the prize counter. But there was no denying that Fritz was good with children. And she usually sided with them.

So what was that?

Then after a couple of minutes she realized she was alone in a dark room with a bunch of empty animatronic heads that smelled like sweaty gym socks.

What the hell was she doing again?

A soft humming drifted from the show stage.

Oh, right. Mike Schmidt.

 

When Laura threw the pizzeria's iconic star-smattered curtains open, she didn't know what to expect she'd find the night guard doing.

She had hoped that it would be something illegal.

Nope.

Mike froze like a wide-eyed woodland creature about to be flattened by an oncoming car. He was balancing on a flimsy-looking stool near the rabbit, clutching a spray bottle and a rag.

"...What the hell are you doing?" she asked finally.

"Uhhh..." the young man twisted the rag in his hands, glancing at the animatronics as if begging them to back him up. But they just stared straight ahead as usual.

Laura tapped her foot on the wooden floor as she patiently waited for an answer.

"Uh...giving them a bath?"

"Why?"

"Because I've lost control of my life."

"No, stupid. I mean why are you still here?" she asked irritably.

"Well... I kind of work here now." he said, standing on the tips of his toes so he could reach the animatronic's long ears.

"I'm well aware of that, Captain Obvious. Let me be more specific: why haven't you quit?"

"Not trying to be rude, but why do you care?" he stepped back and examined the rabbit with a critical eye; he nodded approvingly before moving towards Freddy.

"I don't."

"Good."

"So I take it that you're not quitting."

"And Bingo was his name-o."

What the hell was wrong with him? Surely he wasn't that desperate for the money.

"You still haven't answered my question," she said pointedly. "Why haven't you quit?"

"I dunno."

"Don't play dumb. You know damn well why."

The night guard's Bambi-scared-shitless expression came back with a vengeance.

"Yes, I know about the fox." she said with an impatient wave of her hand.

"That's what he is?"

"Him? So you have seen it." It wasn't a question.

Mike suddenly took great interest in the freckles on Freddy's face; the action did not go unnoticed by Laura.

"I never said that."

"You didn't need to; you're a terrible liar, Schmidt." she said flatly. "You've got no excuse."

Mike regarded her warily, momentarily forgetting his task.

"You know what. I'll consider quitting..."

"Okay." She pressed her lips together, sensing an if underlying his tone.

"If you go out with me for coffee sometime."

Ugh. She should have known that his stubbornness wasn't limited to his refusal to quit this Godforsaken job.

"Close, but no cigar." she said without hesitating.

To her great annoyance, Mike's eyes glimmered triumphantly. She hated to admit it, but she almost missed the gullible, 'aw-shucks' act he had going on the previous day. One night on the job had made him insufferable.

"Well, looks like the day I stop working here is the day you go on a date with me," he said coolly, polishing Freddy's button-like nose in a circular motion. "And that'll happen when hell freezes over. Twice."

Laura sucked in her cheeks before choosing her next words carefully.

"Look. Fazbear Entertainment is incapable of taking responsibility. For anything. They don't give a damn whether you live or die. You're just another inconsequential face to them. Easy to hire...and even easier to replace."

She cleared her throat.

"You could have a normal job. Get married. Have kids of your own. You're an idiot for throwing all that away."

Mike snapped his head in her direction, his mouth twisting into a harsh line and his thin shoulders going rigid. Something in her words must have struck some kind of chord in him.

"What delusion of grandeur gave you the impression that you know anything about me?" he said, hopping down from the stool. Laura was suddenly aware that the guard was nearly two heads taller than her.

"Apparently the same one that made you think you can avoid getting killed by being a suck-up. Are you done being a smart-ass?"

"Are you done being a bitch?" he shot back.

The laughter that wafted through the curtains like woodsmoke did nothing to break the frigid silence that followed.

Laura stood to her full height, wanting nothing more than to slap that stupid smug look off of his stupid stubbled face.

"You know what. I'm sorry. For trying to save your sorry ass." she pinched the bridge of her nose. "When that fox uses you as his personal scratching post, it's your own damn fault."

She then fixed him with a sub-zero glare that could make an entire field of wildflowers wither.

"And am I done being a bitch? Nope."

Without another word, she pivoted on one foot and disappeared through the curtains, leaving an uneasy Mike alone on the stage as they fluttered closed.


	5. Falling Down, Falling Down

11:48 PM

When Mike returned to the pizzeria later that night, he brought a flashlight, his old tennis racket, and a delayed sense of dread with him.

He stayed in his car for a few minutes, listening to the radio crackling quietly in the background. His first night on the job had been nothing short of a stressful roller coaster. The fourth character wanted him dead. That alone should have motivated him to quit his job. But it didn't. If anything, it only piqued his curiosity.

And then there was the matter of the other three animatronics. It was unclear whether or not they posed a threat. Phone Guy had completely glossed over the subject, especially at the mention of...what did he call it? The Gnaw of the Nineties? The Nibble of...? Whatever.

The only real information Mike had to go on was that the characters get crabby whenever they don't get a bath. So the guard's hypothesis was that if he gave them a bath, they'd hopefully be in a better mood by the time midnight rolled around. And that meant that he'd be in their good graces. And that meant he wouldn't die.

And that meant Laura could stick that in her juice box and suck it.

He didn't want to think about what the consequences would be if his strategy backfired.

He grabbed his backpack and tennis racket from the front seat and switched the ignition off.

Time to get to work.

 

The lights in the dining area flickered out just as Mike pushed the door open. The only source of illumination came from a nearby street light, casting a stream of dull light across the checkered floor. He hoped that it wasn't some sort of omen.

It might have just been his mind playing tricks on him, but he could have sworn that he'd heard the creak of a curtain parting ever so slightly...

He tightly gripped his tennis racket; his fingernails digging into the handle.

Oh, no. He was not going to let that...thing in Pirate Cove mess with his emotions. He was a grown-up, damn it. He was going to walk into that office with his head held high and his dignity intact.

Creeaak.

Nah, fuck dignity.

Mike scurried down the west hallway; his sneakers squealed against the linoleum floor as he all but threw himself into the grubby office. He collapsed into the chair, taking deep breaths. It was too early in the night for this.

Once his heartbeat returned to normal, he retrieved the tablet from the desk.

He'd decided on holding off on telling his parents about his job. At least until he could come up with a more eloquent way of saying it than, "So my new job is basically just like Night at the Museum. Only horrible. And Robin Williams isn't in it."

He suddenly frowned. His parents. He'd forgotten something. There were still a couple of months until his dad's birthday. And he'd already complimented his mom's new haircut. So what was it?

"Crap! Movie night! Mom's gonna be pissed." he groaned. His mother was a perfectly nice woman, but she had a temper that made killer bees look gentle. He'd have to come up with an elaborate excuse by the end of the night.

RIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIING!

"Oh, great. You again. This had better be worth the trouble," he said dully as the phone clicked and the message began.

"Uhh, hello? Hello?" Phone Guy called, pausing slightly before continuing. "Uh, well if you're hearing this, and you made it to night two, uh, congrats!"

Mike wasted no time in turning the tablet on and checking the main stage. He gazed steadily at each of the three animatronics, trying to ignore the growing sense of doubt in his chest. The camera panned slowly to the right and back again. He crossed his fingers tightly, partly for good luck, but mostly to stop them from shaking. He hoped that his theory was right.

"I realize I should've warned you about the character in Pirate Cove. His name's Foxy. And he's uh...not friendly."

"Yeah, thanks for the warning. I really appreciate it." Mike said under his breath, putting the tablet down.

"D-did he ever try to get into the office?"

The night guard opened his mouth and snapped it shut again. No point in answering when the person asking the question can't hear you to begin with. It was the one thing he'd learned from enduring countless episodes of Dora the Explorer as a child.

"Probably not. I was just curious," Phone Guy continued, the pitch of his voice raising slightly. "Foxy usually doesn't leave his cove on Mondays; he's always been a creature of habit. Heh, he was always my favorite..."

Mike drummed his fingers on the armrest of the chair as if to say 'Get. To. The. Point.'

"Uhh, something to keep in mind: Foxy gets antsy when the cameras remain off for long stretches of time. So just check on him every once in a while, you know.

"But not too often," he added firmly. "Worst possible mistake you could make. But I have faith that you're smarter than that—I hope."

Mike aimed a withering glare at the phone before turning his attention to CAM 1C. To his relief, the curtains were tightly shut.

"I mean it. Don't underestimate him," he said without a trace of any stammering or hesitation. "He's fast. Faster than you can imagine. So you've got to think fast if—"

He paused mid-sentence and sighed.

"Speak of the devil. Um, hold on."

There was the unmistakable thud of one of the doors being shut. Hardly three seconds later it was followed by a series of muffled bangs and a stream of colorful swears.

Then all was quiet. Mike listened with bated breath.

"Heh, sorry about that," the man said sheepishly, opening the door again. "Anyway, Foxy doesn't like being watched. Uh, you get the picture."

"Kinda figured that out on my own last night. But thanks." Mike muttered to the crappy children's drawings on the wall.

"And he doesn't like security guards either. But that's a long story. Uh, maybe some other time. As for the other characters..."

He leaned forward in his chair, staring at the phone expectantly.

"...Well, you'll see, heh."

He fought the urge to smack his face repeatedly against the desk. He should have known better than to trust the sort of guy that would go from talking about earthquakes to Hamlet all in one conversation.

"Anyway, I'm sure you have everything under control. Uh, talk to you soon!"

Click.

 

2:00 AM

"London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady..."

Over the course of two hours, Mike had fallen into an odd routine. He would sing one verse of "London Bridge Is Falling Down" twice, quickly check cameras 1A and 1C, and flicker each of the door lights once. Then he'd move to the next verse and start again. The song was mostly to break the silence, but it helped take his mind off of the dread that was growing slowly, but steadily with each passing second.

"Build it up with silver and gold, silver and gold, silver and gold..."

To be perfectly honest, he was starting to get bored after a couple hours of nothing happening. And his butt was starting to fall asleep from sitting in that damn chair for so long. And he'd left his apartment in such a hurry that he'd forgotten to grab his phone charger from the kitchen counter; a mistake he mentally kicked himself for.

He flickered the light to his left.

Nothing.

And to the right.

Nothing. As usual.

"Set a man to watch all night, watch all night, watch all night. Set a man to watch all night, my fair—SON OF A MOTHER DUCK!"

He stared down at the image on the monitor, his heartbeat crashing in his ears.

The stage was completely empty.

London Bridge had fallen down, fallen down, fallen down.

"S-suppose the m-man should fall asleep, fall asleep, f-fall asleep..." he sang, his peace of mind cracking and crumbling with each syllable.

 

After several minutes of flipping through the cameras and borderline hysterical singing, he'd finally found the rabbit.

Which happened to be lurking at the opposite end of the West hallway.

Standing underneath a faulty lightbulb, the animatronic was nothing more than a towering silhouette. The ears had been the dead giveaway. His looming shadow flickered ominously on the floor.

The chicken was trickier to keep track of. While the rabbit took its sweet time dawdling from room to room, the bird was restless; never staying in one place for long. At one point he'd spotted it near the women's restroom in CAM 7, but it had moved back to the dining area hardly a minute later. Then it was nowhere to be found.

"Where. Are. You." Mike said through clenched teeth as he checked the dining area for the umpteenth time.

Not a single yellow tail feather in sight.

But then he heard an odd series of metallic clangs that echoed faintly through the pizzeria. Further investigation revealed that the commotion was coming from the kitchen. The one room in the whole damn building where the camera was disabled.

Of the three, the bear was definitely the most elusive. After cycling through each room twice, the guard eventually gave up. If the bear decided to pay a visit to the office, he'd know.

 

3:00 AM

The bunny had ducked into the tiny supply closet, looking a bit silly standing amongst the mundane cleaning supplies and cobwebs. As far as Mike knew, the chicken was still in the kitchen judging by the rhythmic banging of pots.

Wait. He could have sworn that the kitchen was on the right side of the building. So why did it sound like the clanging was coming from the left?

And it was getting louder. And it was getting closer. Weird.

Either the pots and pans had sprouted legs, or...

Mike's eyes went freakishly wide. That wasn't the chicken.

He frantically switched over to the West hall, catching a brief glimpse of a scarlet figure bolting through the darkness.

His body seemed to act on its own accord, adrenaline propelling him to his feet and towards the switch.

But he wasn't fast enough.

"Knock, knock, bastard!"

Foxy the Pirate charged into the office with a tremendous shout, and Mike ducked wildly as a hook went slashing through the air where his head had been.

He blindly grabbed the tennis racket and thrusted it in front of his face just as the animatronic brandished its hook again.

The night guard planted his feet and held on for dear life as the fox struck at him again and again; the force of the blows caused Mike to almost lose his balance.

"H-help! Please! Someone!" he screamed with as much force as he could muster. He suddenly had the sickening sensation of falling backwards and cried out as he was sent reeling to the floor. The tennis racket had been cast aside. He stared up into the face of his attacker, desperately willing himself not to break down.

"Well, well, well. Look who had the nerve to show their dumb fuckin' face here again." Foxy snarled, his jaw opening to reveal a row of jagged teeth that glinted in the dim light.

He didn't have the same rounded, stocky build as the other animatronics; he was lankier and more angular. There were several patches in his suit, revealing the metal endoskeleton underneath. His jaw was slightly crooked. His wide stance and ferocious appearance reminded Mike of a gruff alley cat that had been in one too many fights.

"P-please d-don't—"

"P-p-please don't kill me! Have m-m-mercy!" the pirate whined in a cruel, but accurate imitation of his desperate stammering. He slowly advanced towards him; the guard scooted backwards until he found himself wedged in a corner between the desk and the door.

"Piñata time." he raised his hook high above his head. Mike instinctively threw his arms over his face and braced himself for the fatal blow.

"Not if we can help it. Get him, Chica!"

"Honey, I thought you'd never ask. Take this, Irish Spring!"

"What the—AARGH!"

Once he realized that he was still alive, Mike hesitantly lowered his arms and looked up just in time to see Foxy being tackled to the floor by a blur of yellow. He rubbed his eyes to make sure that this wasn't some sort of bizarre dream.

Meanwhile, the bunny had slipped into the office and knelt in front of the bewildered young man, his wine-colored eyes moving over his face and arms in concern.

"You alright there, buddy?" he asked, placing a large purple paw on his shoulder in what seemed to be a friendly gesture.

Mike slowly nodded, not trusting his voice just yet.

Foxy jumped to his feet in one swift movement, his ears flattening as he turned towards the chicken, who was daintily dusting her hands off on her bib.

"You dirty, vile bi—"

"Hold your tongue, Foxy," she said in a charming drawl; the kind that brought images of tall glasses of sweet tea and humid summers in the Mississippi Delta to mind. Mike thought that accent only existed in civil war costume dramas. "You know I don't appreciate cussin'. You'd best vamoose before I strike the fear of God into you."

"Oh, shut it, Tennessee Williams," the buccaneer spat, leaning forward till he was nose-to-beak with the chicken. "The South has yet to win a war."

"First time for everything, darlin'." she said darkly, slowly connecting her fist to her palm like a bully on the playground. "An introduction to my extensive collection of kitchen knives can be arranged."

For several tense moments, the animatronics stared each other down in a silent battle of intimidation.

Mike's gaze ping-ponged between the two, anxious to see who would prevail. He felt like he was watching a live-action Japanese monster movie.

Foxy was the first to break eye contact, his burning yellow eyes snapping to the guard, who shivered.

"Just get out, Foxy." the bunny muttered stiffly, his gaze fixed on the floor.

At this, Foxy's expression wavered briefly before hardening again.

"Alright, candy ass. You're safe. For now. But you can't hide behind them forever." he growled before stalking out of the office. Mike had officially seen it all now.

"Is the fighting over?" a baritone voice piped up hesitantly from somewhere in the darkness.

The chicken sighed in exasperation, planting her palms on her hips. "Yes, Freddy. You can come out now."

"Thank God. I thought that backstabbing brute would never leave." Mike could hear the soft padding of footsteps approaching down the East hall. And a moment later, Freddy Fazbear himself appeared in the doorway.

"I daresay, woman, surely you could find a more civil way of disposing him than physical violence," he said reproachfully, his accent very clipped and pronounced. "It's not very ladylike, if you ask me."

"To quote another talking animal, 'Ladies do not start fights, but they can finish them.'"

"Hmph. Can't argue with you there." Freddy finally took notice of the human staring at him with a slackened jaw. "Begging your pardon, but who the bloody hell are you?"

"Y-you're British." Mike said hoarsely.

The bear blinked once.

"And you have a very keen grasp of the obvious."

Mike began to thank him, but covered it up as a cough upon realizing that it wasn't a compliment.

"Oh, you hush now," the chicken said, swatting Freddy lightly on the hand. "This poor boy's been through hell and back tonight."

"He's the nice guy who gave us a bath yesterday!" the bunny chimed in before turning to Mike with an apologetic smile. "Sorry if we spooked you before."

"Nah, I wasn't scared. Not a bit," he replied, his voice an octave or two higher than normal. Freddy lifted one eyebrow.

"But where are our manners? We haven't even introduced ourselves! My name is Chica the Chicken. Back-up singer and cooking extraordinnaire. Pleased to meet you, darlin'." she said with a winning smile.

"Sir Frederick Fazbear. You may call me Freddy if you like." he shook Mike's hand by the very tips of his stubby fingers as if handling a slimy toad.

"Hiya! The name's Bonnie!" The next thing he knew, he was lifted off of his feet and being engulfed in a rib-cracking hug.

"Nice–to–meet you," Mike managed to say in a strangled voice. "Could you–please–

"Oops! My bad." the bunny sheepishly set him back down; the guard took deep gulps of air once his feet touched the ground.

"Don't mind Bonnie. He gets tickled pink when he makes new friends." Chica said warmly. "So what's your name, honey?"

"Uh, Mike Schmidt, ma'am."

"That's a fine name."

"Charmed, I'm sure."

"Yay! I've gotta new friend!"


	6. Bark and Bite

"I reckon you've got a bunch'a questions." Chica said, sitting in the chair opposite Mike, crossing her legs at the ankles.

"I-I can't think of a thing."

"Sure you can! Just start with something small!" Bonnie said kindly, his impressive ears whirring as if to echo their assent.

"Yes, it would probably be in your best interest to stick to monosyllabic responses. Anything larger than that would result in mild brain damage," Freddy muttered, dragging one finger through the thin layer of dust that coated the desk.

Chica gave her companion a half-lidded glare before swiveling back around to face the night guard.

"Don't let him scare you, honey. It takes Freddy a while to warm up to new people."

"Yeah! He still hasn't warmed up to me, and I've known him since—"

"Oh, shut up, Bonnie!" Freddy snapped.

The rabbit just smiled and ducked his head.

"So let me get this straight: you guys...don't actually want to hurt me?" Mike asked, running a hand through his hair.

"Of course we don't!"

"Don't be daft, boy."

"What on God's green earth gave you that idea?"

In response, he curved one finger to resemble a hook and twisted his face into the most bloodthirsty expression he could muster. The reaction was instantaneous. Freddy let out a loud "hmph." Chica glared at the open doorway, her eyes darkening from orchid to plum. Bonnie busied himself with smoothing out the edges on one of the children's drawings.

"Who told you?" Freddy abruptly asked, an accusatory edge in his tone. "About the Bite?"

Mike was so taken off-guard by the bluntness of the bear's demand that he almost forgot that it was being directed at him. He licked his lips. He suspected that responding with "some random guy that keeps bugging me" would only irritate Freddy. And "I don't know" would really irritate him.

"Uhhh...Internet?" It was a flimsy excuse, but it was all he could think of.

Freddy stared him down, those electric blue eyes narrowing critically.

"Typical Millenial," he huffed, straightening his bowtie. "With your posh little smart phones and your Google. The whole lot of you can't have a conversation unless you have a screen in front of your faces..."

"How much of it do you know?" Chica asked, deliberately ignoring Freddy's grumbling in the background.

"Not much. The Internet isn't very helpful for something that has a lot of information." Mike said, giving the phone a perfunctory, but pointed glance. "Could you guys tell me about the Bite?"

There was a heavy pause.

"Um, if you don't feel comfortable talking about it, I—"

"Okay." Bonnie said shyly from his spot near the left door, his gaze fixed on one of the drawings. The other two animatronics exchanged looks.

"You sure?" Mike furrowed his brow.

The rabbit's fingers gently traced the choppy lines of faded crayon. "Yup. On one condition."

"Fire away."

Bonnie tore his eyes away from the bulletin board and studied the young man carefully. "You have to tell us what made you start working here."

The corners of Mike's lips tugged downward. He was beginning to regret even bringing up the Bite in the first place. "Naaah, that's a boring story. Don't you want to hear about something else about my life? Something more interesting?"

"Nope. I wanna know why you started working here."

"W-why that?" he asked defensively, clutching the tablet like some sort of shield.

The bunny wiggled his nose. "'Cause this is something we personally don't like talking about. And it looks like I figured out what makes you squirm. We like you—

"Ahem." Freddy said.

"—Overall. But we need to know that we can trust you. So one traumatic story for another. Seems only fair. Deal?" Bonnie tilted his head to one side.

Mike pulled his chin back like a turtle trying to retreat into its shell. On one hand, finding out more about the mysterious Bite of '97 could give him some valuable insight on Foxy that could very well save his life. What was that saying? "Know your enemy?"

On the other hand, he wondered whether this was worth the trouble of reopening wounds that were still healing.

"...Deal." he said reluctantly.

Bonnie nodded. "Okay, then. After every show, we were allowed to leave the stage and meet the kiddos. It was always the best part of the day. Keeping them entertained isn't always the easiest job in the world, but we loved every second of it. And so did...so did Foxy.

He trailed off for a moment, his expression far-off and wistful.

"There was a birthday party that day. Nothing out of the ordinary. The kids were having a blast...then everything went wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong..."

 

February 24, 1997.

The floor had been scrubbed so thoroughly that Bonnie could see his face reflected in the tiles. It was almost hard to believe that the linoleum had been slick with blood several hours ago.

The restaurant had closed much earlier than usual. Even though everything was quiet, he could still hear the terrified shrieks ringing in his ears. He remembered every little detail from earlier that day. The way the light filtered through the balloons and casted little patches of pink and green light across the floor. The gust of chilly air that blew in every time a customer sailed through the door, their cheeks tinged pink from the cold. The scraping of chairs being pulled out. And the laughter. Oh, the laughter. He committed it all to memory because as far as he knew, the good old days were now over.

It was the new security guard's first day on the job; the first guy was being promoted to night shift. Bonnie didn't get a chance to talk to him since the guests arrived for the party soon after. For lack of a better term, he was a total spaz. Chica tried approaching him and he flinched like he had been burned. Otherwise, he seemed alright.

 

It happened so suddenly that it was still all a blur to Bonnie. He vaguely remembered hearing an argument that was barely discernible above the laughs and cheers. And then a bloodcurdling scream. He whipped around just in time to see Foxy lunging at the guard and sinking his teeth into his flesh.

Then all hell broke loose. Bonnie was so numb with shock that he could only watch as screaming parents grabbed their children and stampeded towards the door. Two or three men had to wrestle Foxy off of the young man. His teeth were glistening with blood and the look in his eyes was ferocious.

The next thing Bonnie knew was being whisked back to the stage along with Chica and Freddy and having the curtains snapped shut.

He had zoned out for the rest of the day, sitting with his knees tucked tightly against his chest. He felt as hollow as one of the spare mascot suits.

The only thing that he could think about was the image of his best friend senselessly attacking an innocent man...

 

Around midnight, Foxy slowly emerged from Pirate Cove, his shoulders hunched and his arms hanging limply at his sides.

With a high-pitched screech, Chica barreled past and launched herself at the pirate, sending him sprawling to the floor and then pounced on him.

"Chica—what the—arghh—Jesus!"

"YOU—BACKSTABBING—SELFISH—GOOD FOR NOTHING—HEARTLESS—SON OF A BITCH!" she screamed, her fists colliding with his face again and again in an endless barrage of punches. Chica usually refrained from using vulgar language, but when she swore, she meant business.

With great effort, Freddy finally managed to pull her off of Foxy. Bonnie had retreated behind a table and sank to the floor, covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut. He hated this. His whole world was falling apart and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Chica growled and tried to wriggle her way out of Freddy's arms which were locked firmly around her midsection. "Let me—go! DAMN IT, FREDDY! LET ME GO!" 

"Are you quite finished?" he hissed through gritted teeth, his top hat slightly askew.

"I will be when his head is on a silver platter!"

"Violence won't solve anything, my dear. We're above stooping to his level." He shot a scathing glare in Foxy's general direction. "We are going to discuss this calmly and civilly." 

Chica opened her beak. 

"And by 'civilly' I mean 'without beating him senseless.'" Freddy said. She glared at him from over her shoulder. 

"Fine." she grunted as she was freed from his vice grip.

Foxy had clambered back to his feet, wincing slightly as he tried to put his jaw back into place. 

"You've gotta lot of nerve showin' your face here after that stunt you pulled." she snarled, her Southern accent more pronounced and harsh.

"Please—let me explain."

"Oh, hell no. I don't wanna hear anything you're got to say, you bastard."

Freddy's jaw was set tightly. Though he was showing much more restraint than Chica, there was no mistaking the contempt in his eyes when he finally looked at the pirate.

"I have no words."

"You attacked an employee! One of our own. He did nothin' wrong!" Chica jabbed a finger at Foxy.

"That's just it. He did nothin'," he snarled in a tone that oozed of hatred. "A jellyfish has more backbone than that spineless piece of shit—"

"F-Foxy?" Bonnie asked in a small voice.

The pirate's corded posture slackened slightly, but did he not turn towards him.

"Bon...just stay outta this." he said softly.

"Yes, let the grown-ups handle this." Freddy sneered. 

Chica placed a hand on Bonnie's shoulder, but he shrugged her off. He slowly moved towards the fox, his eyes wide and confused.

"W-why? Why d-did you do that?" 

Foxy shook his head, his eyes screwed shut. "Bonnie, please don't."

"M-maybe it's not too late to f-fix this. Maybe if you j-just—"

"No."

"—Say you're—"

"Shut up." 

"—Sorry—"

The pirate turned on Bonnie, his eyes blazing feverishly. "SHUT UP! You shut the hell up! I'd rather throw myself to the sharks! I ain't apologizin' for somethin' I ain't sorry for. The only thing I regret is not finishin' him off!"

The rabbit trembled violently. Foxy had never spoken to him this harshly before. "Y-you don't m-mean that."

"You don't know shit. About any o' this or about me. So just keep your mouth shut, you idiot—"

SMACK.

Freddy and Chica gaped as Bonnie struck Foxy hard across the face.

For as long as he could remember, he constantly had to put up with Freddy's dismissive remarks and put-downs. "Stupid." "Nimwit." "Imbecile." The list went on and on. If he was ever praised for something, he could count on the bear to make some sort of snide comment that would bring him down.

Foxy was the one to take him under his wing. He had taught him everything that he knew about performing. The buccaneer had seen potential in him that the others had overlooked. He made him feel...important. Good enough.

 

When the words "you idiot" left Foxy's mouth, something inside Bonnie snapped.

"How dare you." he said lowly, his fists shaking. Foxy cringed as if he had been slapped a second time.

"P-please, Bon. I didn't mean it—" he took a step forward.

Bonnie stepped back, his ears standing straight up. "You didn't mean it?! You just said that you're not sorry! If there's one thing I know about you, it's that you don't say anything you don't mean. There are a lot of parents that never wanna come back here ever again because of you. We can never—"

He cut himself off. He needed to be sure that he could say his next words without breaking down completely. "W-we can never leave the stage during the day again. Because of you. Not once did you stop to think about the consequences of your actions and what it would cost the rest of us. You're so selfish. Good to know that you didn't mean it."

"Y-you have to believe me. I had a g-good reason—"

"I don't care. I'm done."

Foxy stared at Bonnie with a pained, raw expression. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Please. You're the only friend I have left. I've lost s-so much today. I c-can't lose you, too—"

He moved towards him again, his arms extended in a pleading gesture. The rabbit recoiled.

"You ruined EVERYTHING!" he screamed with every ounce of strength he had. "You failed the pizzeria! The kids! The parents! Freddy and Chica! YOU FAILED ME! I looked up to you! You were my best friend! My big b-brother—"

A horrible sob escaped his voice box, rendering him unable to continue. He turned on his heel and fled to the stage as fast as his legs could carry him, ignoring Foxy's desperate cries. He was ashamed of himself for breaking down in front of the others. Freddy and Chica gave Bonnie space for the rest of the night. Every once in a while he could hear Foxy weeping softly.

"I failed...I failed..."


	7. About a Girl

Mike stared at Bonnie in stunned silence. What was he supposed to say? "I'm sorry?" "That sucks, man?" "You're all better off without him?"

Every response that he formulated in his mind felt empty and meaningless. He was silent for several minutes.

"S-so did he ever say why he did it?"

Freddy shook his head. "Management said that it was most likely due to some sort of glitch in his hard wiring. He attacked for no reason."

Mike worried his bottom lip between his teeth, but said nothing. He didn't doubt that the bear was speaking earnestly, but something about his statement just didn't ring true with him.

If he had learned anything about Foxy at all during the past few hours, it was that he didn't move the same way that the other animatronics did. They all ambled towards the office at their own comfortable pace, making many pit stops on the way. Foxy didn't dawdle. Or get sidetracked. He was unbelievably focused. He'd sprint for the office and then would go straight back to his cove if the door was shut. The pirate didn't strike him as an individual who half-assed anything. Every move that he made was full of purpose.

There had to be a logical reason for Foxy to lash out at that guy the way that he did.

"What was he like? The guard that was attacked?" he asked.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, what's-his face!" Bonnie looked at his fellow animatronics. "Did you guys ever find out his name?"

"Jeremy—Jeremy Something," Chica replied, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration."I just remember that it had an "ihhh" sound to it. Come to think of it, a lotta folks around here have "ihhh" names. Mike Schmidt, whatever Jeremy's last name is, Fritz Smith—"

Mike tilted his head slightly. "Who?"

"The day shift guard."

"Oh! Haven't met him yet."

Bonnie broke out into a fit of quiet giggles. The young man stared.

"What's so funny?"

"Fritz is a girl."

Mike blinked. "The hell kind of name is that."

"It's her nickname. No one knows her real first name." Bonnie said with a shrug. "You should meet her some time. She's cool!"

Freddy grimaced slightly. "I think we could all do with a bit less of her 'that's what she said' jokes. And her voice...carries."

Chica shook her head, but still smiled. "Once you get around the inappropriate humor and loudness, she's a fun person to be around."

Freddy silently mouthed the words "In very small doses."

"What was I talkin' about again?" Chica murmured. "Oh, right. Jeremy. Well...he was the most nervous man I'd ever met. Real twitchy and shy. He kept lookin' over his shoulder like he was expectin' his shadow to attack him."

"He didn't—die, did he?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"No! He was only bitten on the arm. If Foxy had done anymore than that, this establishment would have done bought the farm a long time ago."

Mike balked. This is what Phone Guy was making a big hoopla about? "Don't take this wrong way, guys, but I was expecting something a bit more dramatic. Like ripping his still beating heart out of his chest. Or ripping out his frontal lobe."

"Sorry to disappoint you." Freddy deadpanned.

"Well, we've told you our story; now it's your turn." Bonnie plopped down to the floor and sat Indian style.

Shit. He'd remembered.

"Uhhhh, you know what? That was some intense stuff you were talking about. You must be emotionally drained after reliving all that. I know I sure I am. How 'bout we just call it a night?"

"Nice try, darlin'. But you ain't gettin' out of this one," Chica said, folding her arms.

"You're acting like we're gonna pull your teeth," Bonnie said. "Relax! We just wanna know what brought you here. We've never gotten the chance to talk to any of the guys that worked the night shift before. It's like rubbing elbows with a celebrity. Like the Tooth Fairy."

The guard almost laughed, but bit his tongue when he saw how utterly sincere the rabbit's expression was.

"C'mon, Mike. You promised. Pleeeeeeease?"

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Okay, okay. I-I started working here because, um..."

The animatronics all leaned forward because his next words were nothing more than an incoherent mumble.

"Come again? You're gonna have to speak up, darlin'." Chica said.

Mike sank so low into his chair that he was in danger of falling out of it. "It's a really dumb reason."

"Balderdash. There are no dumb answers here." Freddy said in what he seemed to think was an encouraging tone.

"I um, started working here because of—a girl."

"That is, without a doubt, the dumbest reason I have ever heard." the bear said without missing a beat.

Chica sat up very straight in her chair, her eyes glittering. "A girl? Why didn't you say so? Is it a customer? An employee?"

"It's not that prize counter girl, is it?" Bonnie made a face. "She scares me a little bit."

Join the club, Bonnie. Mike thought. "Oh, God, no! She made it clear that she doesn't like me. She's too frowny. Not gonna happen."

The mischievous sparkle in Chica's eye grew brighter. "So you do like her! Mike, you dog!"

"No, guys, that's not—"

"Oooooh, Mikey's got a girlfriend, Mikey's got a—"

"She's not my girlfriend, okay?" the guard mumbled, holding his arms close to his body in an attempt to look smaller. "Besides, I'm not ready to go through that again."

Freddy frowned. "What?"

"Nothing."

"No, you just said that you're not ready to go that again. What do you mean by that?"

Mike closed his eyes and steeled himself. "I started working here—to get over a girl."

The animatronics went very quiet for several minutes.

"Oh," Bonnie said lamely.

He sighed for what seemed like the umpteenth time. It had been six months. Surely he could talk about this without crying like some sort of lovesick puppy.

When they still said nothing, he realized that they were waiting for him to continue. "I used to work at this indie bookstore that also doubled as a coffee shop. Not the most luxurious job in the world, but I liked it. Especially when it rained...

"T-there was this girl from my acting class that always came in twice a week. Her name was Maude. She was...cute." That's an understatement.

"Don't hold out on us, Mike! Give us some details!" Chica exclaimed.

"Good God, woman! This isn't one of your depraved soap operas. Let the poor boy talk about his nonexistent love life at his own pace." Freddy said sharply, tilting his head towards the ceiling in exasperation.

Mike pretended that he hadn't heard that last part. "It took me a couple of months to work up the courage to go and talk to her. She wasn't intimidating, but I chickened out every time I'd try to introduce myself to her."

"How long did you two date?" Bonnie inquired from his spot on the floor.

"Six months."

"Did you love her?"

Mike went silent, switching the monitor on and checking CAM 2B, which was in the corner of the West Hall. Nothing there except for a few crumpled wads of paper and...really? A painfully familiar poster of Freddy with the words "LET'S PARTY!" written in all-caps.

Why couldn't they have just put one camera in the corner so it could get a view of the entire hallway? It would've saved money at the very least. Then again this was the same restaurant that bought a friggin' out-of-order sign that was patterned with stars.

"I'm gonna take that as a yes, then." the rabbit said simply.

"We had everything in common," the guard said thickly, his gaze trained stubbornly on that stupid poster. "We liked all the same movies and bands. We even had the same sense of humor. I-I could see a life with her. I could see her in a white dress, rosy and laughing. I could see us moving into a house with a white picket fence. I could see us with..."

He jabbed the power button on the tablet with a bit more force than was necessary.

Ding-dong-ding-dong! Dong-ding-ding-dong!

6:00 AM

"Aw, fiddlesticks! Just when it was getting good." Bonnie dramatically folded his arms across his chest like a huffy toddler who hadn't gotten his way.

"Calm your biscuits, Bonnie! I think we've all had enough excitement for one night." Chica said as she rose from her chair. The disappointment in her tone was thinly veiled.

"Yes, enough of all of this domestic rubbish," Freddy grumbled, tapping one foot on the floor. "As if we don't get enough of it during the daytime."

Mike jumped to his feet and grabbed his backpack from under the desk. "Sorry to leave you guys hanging, but my bed's calling my name. It was nice to finally meet you guys though!"

The bear gave him a curt nod. "Yes. Quite."

"This has been a treat! We'll have to swing by again tomorrow night and shoot the bull." Chica trilled.

The guard stared. "Shoot the—what?"

"She means chit-chat. It's one of her weird Southern sayings." Bonnie whispered.

"Gotcha." Mike stood awkwardly in the doorway, fidgeting with the strap of his backback. "So...see you guys around?"

Chica smiled. "Good Lord willin'."

"Good day, sir." Freddy said, exiting the office without giving the young man a second glance.

"Word of advice: Freddy likes books." the bird said in a stage whisper.

Mike nodded slowly, confused by this revelation. "Okaaay?"

"Namely classic literature. And Shakespeare."

"What are you talking about?"

"Someone once said that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. In this case, it's books." Chica winked and moseyed down the East Hall, leaving the guard alone with Bonnie.

"I guess this is good-bye for now," the rabbit said, turning to leave before catching himself. "One last thing: what happened? With that girl?"

"She didn't love me." Mike replied in a monotone voice.

The animatronic said nothing for a full minute. Then he stepped forward and placed one large hand on the guard's shoulder, squeezing it lightly. He gave him a sad smile.

"Get plenty of rest, Mike. You deserve it."

And with that, Bonnie waved and quietly slipped out of the office.

Mike's attempt at ignoring the dull pang in his chest was all in vain. When he'd first donned that security jacket, he had vowed to never think about Maude again. But it was looking to be impossible now because there were reminders of her everywhere...

 

At the current moment, Mike was hyper-aware of three things as Maude Kissinger kissed him senseless:

1\. Her curls tickled his nose.

2\. He had no idea what to do with his hands.

3\. He clearly wasn't good at this whole "kissing and walking with your eyes closed" thing.

He let out a muffled "mmph!" as he nearly tripped over what seemed to be a coffee table. He anchored his hands on her shoulders to maintain his balance and keep her from toppling over with him. At least he finally had something to do with his hands.

While the mental image of her on top of him wasn't exactly terrible to envision, he would prefer it to be on something softer. Namely not the hardwood floor.

Maude broke the kiss, giggling. "Careful, butterfingers. I won't have you falling and shattering into a million pieces. It'd take weeks to sweep you off of the floor."

Mike clutched at his chest in mock offense. "I'm not that skinny, smarty pants."

"I don't think the king has enough horses or men to put you back together again," she continued, poking his belly button playfully. "I mean, could you imagine being broken and being put back together by a horse? That would be so weird. They don't have hands or anything, so how would that work—"

He let his eyes flit around the living room of her tiny apartment while she continued to babble. The decor was like her: cutesy, cheerful, quirky, albeit mismatched. The vintage record player looked rather odd sitting on a green whale rug, but it all seemed to tie together in its own unique, lackadaisical way.

Mike suddenly had the inexplicable feeling of being watched, and slowly turned around.

 

Sitting dead-center on the couch was the creepiest teddy bear that he had ever seen. Its fur was a bright, gaudy shade of gold, and wore a tiny purple tophat that matched its bowtie. The plushie smiled up at him with its beady little black eyes.

The poster hanging above the couch wasn't much better. The guffawing bear in the picture was almost identical to the weird toy, but its coloring was a more natural brown, and its eyes were a bright, piercing shade of blue.

"What the hell are those?" he asked, turning to look back at Maude while gesturing to the couch.

"Shut. Up. You've never heard of Freddy's?!"

Should he have? Mike shook his head slowly. "Uhh, is that one of those Chuck E. Cheese knockoffs or something?"

Maude's eyes widened comically. "That place was like, my whole childhood. It's the best restaurant ever. If you've never been there, you're not a true American."

He stared at her, slightly alarmed by her reaction. He had never quite understood the appeal of the Chuck E. Cheese style restaurants. To be fair, his parents had never taken him when he was a kid. He figured it was just one of those "you had to be there" things.

"Can we go back to kissing now? That was nice." he said, smiling awkwardly.

Maude responded by launching herself at him, resulting in Mike stumbling backwards onto the couch and pulling her down with him. The gold bear had fallen to the floor.

He found himself sprawled across the tiny couch, his feet dangling over the arms. And Maude was sitting on top of him.

"You're lucky you're so cute," she said cheekily, her strawberry-blond curls tickling his face again as she leaned over him. 

"Y-yeah." His cheeks went pink as he felt the light pressure of her palms on his chest. Her red lips broke into a truly dazzling smile.

"So are you gonna kiss me or not?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He raised himself into a sitting position, so she was straddling his lap. 

"Yes, ma'am." he responded throatily, pulling her closer so her chest was flush against his.

He could feel her smile as his lips crashed into hers...

 

He cleared his throat and began searching the office for his tennis racket. He'd figured out his cover story for missing movie night with his parents: late night tennis club. Because that was totally what twenty-somethings do for fun. Playing tennis at 3:00 AM.

After looking under the chairs for the third time, he spotted it lying in the West Hall. Foxy must have flung it behind him when he'd barged in earlier.

Mike stepped into the dim hallway and bent to retrieve the racket from the floor. He absentmindedly glanced at the poster and did a double take.

"What the—"

To his shock, the image of Freddy's toothy grin was unchanged. But for a split second, he could have sworn that it looked like the bear had been ripping half of his face off, leaving only his lower jaw.

He squinted at the poster in the darkness, silently daring it to try and play tricks on his eyes again. When nothing happened, he scoffed once and drifted down the hallway.

Over the past couple of nights, he had seen some weird shit. That creepy poster was the least of his problems.

He strolled into the dining area, oblivious to the supply closet creaking open ever so slightly.


	8. Dead Man Walking

"Can you tell me anything about the Bite?" Mike asked for the twelfth time that afternoon.

The janitor, a rectangular-looking man named Paul, moved towards the supply closet as quickly as his pudgy legs would allow.

"Well, it's been nice to meet you, son. Hate to leave you like this, but those floors don't mop 'emselves," he said, hastily grabbing an old broom and a bottle of window cleaner.

Mike started after him. "Wait, please—"

"Hope you like it here!"

Mike groaned as Paul retreated to the bathrooms. The responses he'd gotten earlier were more or less the same. If they didn't shut the door in his face, they would change the subject or suddenly have some important task to do. It didn't take him long to figure out that the Bite was just as touchy a subject for the employees as it was for the animatronics.

The one good thing that came out of all of this was that he'd finally gotten to meet most of the staff.

 

He should have known better than to ask Laura.

"Oh, yeaaah. I remember it all like it happened yesterday. Did I forget to mention that I was two years old?"

Well, at least she was honest.

Mike sighed and shuffled towards the door. Maybe he just needed to give it a rest. He'd already asked everyone and he'd gotten nowhere.

"Hey, kid!" a clear, mezzo voice called out, cutting through the boisterous chatter.

"Huh?" he whirled around, nearly colliding with a customer.

A young woman leaned against the wall near the entrance, watching him with an amused expression. "What's the matter, kid? Lost your mommy?"

"No, I-I haven't—hey! I'm not—" he spluttered.

She snorted. "Jeez, calm your tits, kid! It was just a—YO! THE SKEE BALL MACHINE'S NOT A FRIGGIN' JUNGLE GYM!"

Mike clamped his hands over his ears, which were ringing painfully from the close proximity. Damn, that woman could scream.

"Sorry if I scared you," she said, moving closer. "Kids these days are rowdy. Gotta climb all over everything. And poop on everything."

He stared at her, not quite sure how to respond.

"The name's Fritz Smith, by the way! Day shift guard."

If musical instruments were people, then she was a walking, talking trombone. It was that obnoxious voice and those long, powerful legs that stretched on and on.

Her eyes raked over him from head to toe. There was nothing flirtatious about her stare, but he still squirmed from the forwardness of it.

"I'm uh, Mike. Figured you'd like to know since you're checking me out." he said offhandedly.

She guffawed at this. "You're too precious! I just wanna push you around in a stroller."

Mike pursed his lips tightly. Pretty sure I'm not much younger than you, but thanks.

"You must be the elusive new guy." she tilted her head. "Kinda skinny to be a security guard."

"How'd you—"

"It's the 'I have no idea what's going on' look you've got going. That and your security jacket."

"Oh, right." he squeaked.

"You're too cute!" she said, giving him an affectionate smack on the ass. He flinched, his entire facing heating up. The animatronics really hadn't exaggerated about her.

"So what's the night shift like?" she asked.

"Umm." he made a conscious effort not to look at Pirate Cove. "It's real boring."

"I don't blame you. It would be waaay too quiet for me. There are days when I can't even hear myself think, but I prefer the craziness." Fritz replied with a fond smile.

Mike cleared his throat. "Can I uh, ask you something?"

"Fire away!"

"Do you know anything about—"

"C-can you help me?"

The pair turned toward the newcomer, a plain woman with frazzled curls and eyes that were too bright.

Mike stood up a little straighter. "Uh, what's wrong?"

"I-I can't f-find my son." she said.

"Where was the last place you saw him, ma'am?" Fritz asked, her jaw set.

"By the—the prize counter. I l-looked everywhere."

"Hold tight, kid. Stay with her. This is an emergency," the guard said sharply, then turned to the anxious mother. "Don't worry. I'll find him."

She took off across the dining room without a word, pushing past bewildered patrons.

Mike glanced at the woman, who was clutching her purse so tightly that her knuckles were turning white.

"I s-should have—he's—he's only five." she stammered, her eyes brimming with tears.

With some tredapidation, he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Um, there, there, ma'am. I'm sure it'll all be fine."

He was taken offguard when she latched onto him and broke down crying. He awkwardly patted the top of her head and tried to squirm free.

A few minutes later, Fritz emerged from the parts and services room with a small, curly-haired boy in tow. "Found him wandering around backstage."

"Robby!" the woman cried, shoving Mike out of the way. She dropped to her knees and flung her arms around her son. "T-thank you..."

"Don't mention it, ma'am," Fritz said with a hard smile that didn't meet her eyes. "Just be more watchful."

The woman smiled shakily, took her son by the hand and disappeared into the crowd. "Don't you ever scare me like that again..."

Fritz turned back to Mike. "Sorry about that. This doesn't happen often, but when it does...so, anyway. What were you gonna ask me?"

"Do you know anything about—" he glanced around the room and lowered his voice. "—the Bite of '97?"

The young woman's expression was unreadable. "What do you know about it?"

"Not much, really," he admitted with a shrug. "Just that—one of the characters attacked an employee. A security guard."

Fritz's brass-colored eyes narrowed. "How do you know about Fitzgerald?"

"Uh, Internet?"

"Bullshit. The papers didn't say anything about the victim's identity. They told you, didn't they."

"They?"

She jerked her head in the direction of the main stage. "The animatronics. What did they say?"

"They um, said that Fo—the other character attacked for reason."

"You believe that?" she asked, staring down at him intently.

Mike shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I—no."

"Tell me something, Mike. Did you ever come here as a kid?"

"I wouldn't be asking if I had," he said, moving slightly so a couple of customers could pass. "Lived here my whole life, and until recently, I'd never heard of this place. It's weird."

"You must have been living under a big ass rock if you've never been to Freddy's."

"Yeah, I guess."

She gazed out at the room, the bright lights reflected in her eyes. "My job's a real pain in the ass sometimes. But I wouldn't trade one second of it."

"What's this got to do with the Bite?" Mike asked, a bit annoyed that she still hadn't given him a direct answer.

There was a long pause.

"Five kids went missing that day."

A server was yelling out someone's order; a baby wailed and howled; children flew past him, screaming and laughing; silverware clinked against plates; chairs scraped against the floor as they were pulled out from the table.

Something Foxy had said the first night echoed through his mind.

"...I know your kind. The only things that you care about are yourself and your paycheck. You don't deserve to call yourselves men."

It all made sense—the pirate's contempt towards him, the way that woman freaked out.

"Um, t-thanks for telling me," Mike said dumbly.

"Sure thing, kid. Good luck tonight."

"Thanks." he moved towards the door, but halted. "Hey, wait a minute. If the papers didn't say anything about the victim, how do you know his last name?"

Fritz gave him a cryptic smile. "Internet."

 

12:00 AM

The phone started ringing before Mike could even sit down. Couldn't this guy give him a break? He had a lot to think about and he could do without Phone Guy's incessant rambling.

"Hello, hello? Hey, you're doing great! Most people don't last this long."

Mike glared at the phone. That was exactly what he needed to hear right now.

"I mean, you know, they usually move on to other things by now. I'm not implying that they died. Th-th-that's not what I meant. Uh, anyway, I better not take too much of your time. Things start getting real tonight."

"Oh, goody. As if they weren't real enough." he said under his breath, switching the tablet on.

The man took a deep breath. "Listen...Foxy's been through a lot. R-remember what I said before? About showing respect to the characters? That goes for him, too. Uh, I-I know it's hard to respect someone that wants you dead. If you can't do that, at least try to understand where he's coming from. No one loved the kids more than Foxy."

The mere concept of a time when Foxy wasn't a psychotic, ruthless asshole was bizarre to Mike.

"It was..." Phone Guy paused, searching for the right words. "...a horrible day. Brought back a lot of bad memories. The worst part was telling the parents. Makes you want to hold your own kids closer at night."

Mike shuddered as he checked CAM 1C, where the curtains at Pirate Cove remained shut. He couldn't fathom how Foxy felt going through all this. If the things Phone Guy said about him were true, then it must have been torture knowing that there were five faces he'd never see again.

"Management decided it was best to keep the other animatronics in the dark. They took great pains to make sure the disappearances weren't linked to the establishment. Otherwise, there would've been a panic. Especially after...never mind. Some things are best left forgotten, for now."

The guard straightened up. What had he meant by that?

"I-it was too soon," the man's voice was pained. "Putting Jeremy on day shift right out of the gate like that. They should have trained him first, you know. He–he had only worked the night shift, and that was at a sister location. He wasn't ready. They should've waited. Then maybe none of this would've happened..."

Jeremy Fitzgerald. Even if this was all an accident, Mike couldn't help but resent this man that he'd never even met.

"Just–just be kind to Foxy, okay? But don't let your guard down. Heh. No pun intended. Alright, uh, I'll leave you to it. Uh, see you on the flipside!"

Click.

 

3:00 AM

"You're gonna do what?!"

"That's suicide."

"You might as well paint a big ol' bullseye on your head, while you're at it."

"I know what I'm doing, guys." Mike said, looking each of the animatronics in the eye. He wasn't surprised by their negative reaction. "Maybe I can get through to him."

"There is no reasoning with Foxy," Freddy said in that slow, condescending tone teachers used when talking to a petulant kindergartener.

"Even before the Bite, he never liked changin' his mind." Chica added. "If he hates somethin', then that's it. No ifs, no buts. No second chances."

"I appreciate your concern," Mike said, tapping a finger on the chair's armrest. "But if I want to stay here, I don't want every night to be a fight for my life."

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" Bonnie asked.

Freddy shook his head at the rabbit. "Don't encourage him."

The guard nodded.

"Ughhh, men!" Chica stomped out of the office and down the corridor. The kitchen door slammed shut a few moments later.

The bear snapped his head towards Mike, his expression almost pitying. He opened his mouth, but snapped it shut. He shook his head again and disappeared through the doorway.

"This is really risky, what you're doing," Bonnie said, giving Mike a sidelong glance. "You were lucky last time."

"I know, I know." Mike said, waving his hand. "It's like putting on a seal suit and jumping into a shark tank to bob for apples."

The animatronic tilted his head to one side. "What's a seal?"

"Uh, I'll tell you another day." If I'm still alive.

"I don't like this." Bonnie shuffled his feet, kicking an empty soda can. Mike gulped as it skidded across the checkered floor and hit the wall with a dull clang. Would the fox toss him around with that little effort?

"Don't you want your friend back?"

The rabbit blinked his plastic eyes rapidly. "More than anything. But is it really worth gambling your life?"

"Aw, don't talk like that Bon! I'm gonna be fine." He insisted, his fingers trembling violently.

 

4:58 AM

It was nerve-wracking, leaving both doors open for nearly two hours. Mike had been consistent about checking Pirate Cove.

He called his plan 'Operation Good Samaritan.' He figured the best way to get through to Foxy was to catch him when he was at his most vulnerable, and plead his case. Show him that not all security guards are bad. So what better way to break through to the fox than by trapping him under the door?

He checked CAM 3, where Bonnie was huddled inside the supply closet. The rabbit glanced up towards the camera and nodded tensely. His ears bumped the lightbulb, causing it to swing wildly. His hands flew up to catch it.

There was a burst of light and a shattering of glass. Mike flinched.

Bonnie's large hands were still still raised above his head, holding the remains of the lightbulb. He stared at it in shock, his ears standing straight up. He slowly looked up at the camera again, his face splitting into a cheesy grin.

"Damn it, Bonnie." Mike chuckled. Stealth was not the rabbit's strong suit.

He switched back to CAM 1C again. Still closed. He checked his watch. Almost 5:00 AM. "Ten...nine..."

Bonnie's eyes flickered towards the crack in the door.

"Five...four...three...two...one." he checked Pirate Cove one last time, shut off the tablet and set it aside.

He stood and positioned himself near the door switch. He raked a hand through his hair.

"Now we wait."

Forty-five minutes crept by, but no sign of Foxy. Mike could have sworn the curtains creaked open at one point, but no footsteps. He hopped from one foot to the other, flashed the light and peeked down the hall.

Damn. He'd forgotten that Pirate Cove was on the left side of the dining area, giving him only a side view. It was near impossible to discern whether the curtains were opened or not. He leaned out into the hallway, craning his neck to get a better view.

A finger tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Not now, Chica. I'm busy." he said, still gazing stubbornly down the hall.

There was a pause.

Plunk.

Without moving his head, Mike glanced to his left. A hook was jammed into the wall, hardly two feet away from where his head had previously been.

Oh, fuck.

Mike slowly turned around, his heart leaping into his throat.

Foxy towered above him, leering down at him with those bloodthirsty eyes.

No...how did he...? He'd been foolish to assume that the pirate would only attack from the West hall.

"Heeeere's Foxy," the pirate snarled softly, dislodging his hook from the wall with ease.

The guard grabbed the chair in one swift movement and flung it at the fox. He ran from the office, his legs pumping wildly. Foxy's footsteps clacked several feet behind him.

"Nowhere to run, you piece of shit!"

"Bonnie! He got in!" he screamed without looking back.

"The power! Shut off the power!" the rabbit hollered, emerging from his hiding place.

"Where?" he hurtled himself over one of the tables, nearly losing his footing.

"Parts and Services! He can't find you in the dark! Just run!"

Mike's chest burned and his heart hammered against his ribcage, but his determination to live propelled him towards the backstage room.

He stumbled inside. Shit! The room was nearly pitch black. There was no way in hell that he'd find the power breaker. His eyes ping-ponged around the room. Nothing but a bunch of spare animatronic heads and an old mascot suit slumped in the corner. Maybe he could disguise himself—

Foxy threw the door open wide; dim, blue light streamed across the floor and illuminated Mike's face. "Gotcha, candy-ass."

He held up his shaking hands in a peaceful gesture. "L-look, I-I think we uh, got off on the–on the wrong foot."

"Did we, now?" Foxy retorted, slowly advancing.

Mike's back hit the table. "It d-doesn't h-have to be like this."

"I think it does."

Mike lifted his chin and stared him in the eye. This might be his last chance. "I'm not like Fitzgerald."

Ding-dong-ding-dong! Dong-ding-ding-dong!

Neither animatronic or human acknowledged the 6:00 chimes.

"You ran. You begged. You cried. You hid behind a monitor and metal doors. Now tell me what makes you any better than him."

Mike froze under the animatronic's hard glare, racking his brain for something, anything to prove him wrong. But he came up empty-handed. Foxy was right. All he'd cared about was saving his own ass.

"That's what I thought." he spat, marching out of the room.

"I know about the Bite." the guard blurted, his mouth acting on its own accord.

Foxy stopped dead in his tracks, his back turned.

"And t-those kids, too." Mike added in a softer tone.

The pirate still didn't respond, but his posture was corded and tense.

"I get it. You're angry; you have every reason to be. But it's not right to punish me for someone else's mistake."

Foxy angled his head slightly in his direction. He was listening; it was a start.

"You really miss them, don't you?" Mike asked, approaching the animatronic with caution. "It had to be tough. But they wouldn't have wanted you to take it out on a harmless person. I-I understand how you must have—"

SMACK.

Foxy bolted across the room and pinned the guard against the wall before he could even blink. He winced as his back hit the wall, the wind knocked out of him.

The pirate leaned in, his teeth clenched and glinting like daggers. From this close, Mike could see the faint rust-colored stains...

"That was the last fuckin' nail in your coffin." he growled, his voice dangerously soft. "So here's a little present, from me to you."

He grabbed the guard's left arm with his good hand, his fingers constricting his wrist with the strength of a python. Mike bit his tongue to keep from crying out when Foxy raked his hook across the top of his hand. Just lightly enough that it could have been a paper cut, but with just enough pressure to draw blood.

"This is your black spot, matey."

"Is this—is this a p-pirate thing? I d-didn't read Treasure Island in high school—"

"Consider this an IOU—for death," Foxy said, releasing him from his vice grip. "You're a dead man walkin', Schmidt. You'd best start prayin' to Neptune, 'cuz you're livin' on borrowed time."

"Do you regret it? Any of it?" Mike asked in a wobbly voice, clutching his stinging hand.

The robot leaned down, his eyes scorching with hatred. "I'm only sorry I didn't finish Fitzgerald off—any other regrets I have is my business. And don't ever fuckin' claim that you know how I felt. I don't want your fuckin' pity."

Foxy stalked back to Pirate Cove, every metallic footstep like a gunshot.

"I know what suffering is. You don't. But that's all gonna change tonight." he said before disappearing through the curtains, his voice low and menacing.

Mike stared blankly at the floor, cold dread spreading through his stomach and creeping into his veins, his skin, his bones. He clutched his jacket closer, but it gave him no warmth, no comfort.

You're a dead man walking, Schmidt.


	9. Paper Cut

It was raining that day. It was the miserable kind of rain that was gray and freezing and would drag on well into the night.

Laura loved it. It was rare that the weather matched her mood.

She would of loved it more if she didn't ride a bike.

Business had been slow that day due to the nasty weather. A customer or two would occasionally scuttle through the door, bringing a gust of frigid air and fat raindrops in with them. At one point in the day she went and hid the welcome mat in the supply closet. For fun.

The door creaked open and a miserable Mike Schmidt hurried inside, his shoulders hunched against the wind and his brown hair hidden under an old baseball cap.

Laura's lip curled when he stepped onto the linoleum.

"What the—AAAGHH!" his arms flailed wildly as his feet flew out from underneath him. It was like something from an episode of Tom and Jerry.

She smirked. Christmas had come early.

He just sat there on the wet floor for a full minute before hoisting himself back onto his feet. His attempt at smiling it off was lackluster. He shuffled to the nearest table and slumped into an empty seat. He reached into the pockets of his jacket and fished out his phone.

Laura watched Mike from the corner of her eye as he dialed a number and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Hey, mom...you guys having fun in New Orleans?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the music and laughter. "That's great...yeah, don't say N'Awlins. The locals look at you funny when you do...don't let Dad have too much fun, okay?"

The conversation went on a little longer and then Mike said, "Listen...I just wanted to tell you that I love you guys...uhhh, no particular reason. I-I just feel like I don't say it enough."

His tone was too casual, his smile too tight.

"Okay, I'll let you guys go...H-happy anniversary..." he lowered his phone, rising from his chair. He blinked rapidly, his mouth drawn into a pinched line like he'd eaten something sour. His eyes were glassy and dark blue and far too wide.

He looked so...dejected. All because he got rained on and busted his ass? No. That wasn't it. Something was off about the guard today.

He moved towards the stage.

"I hate to rain on your parade, but they're not exactly talkative today." she called.

Mike whirled around, scowling when his eyes landed on her. "What do you mean?"

"They're offline right now. Running diagnostics or some other technological mumbo-jumbo."

"When will they wake up?" he asked, rushing forward and gripping the counter.

Laura leaned away from him, taken aback at the urgency of his tone. "Not until tomorrow morning. Why?"

"Uhhh, no reason. J-just wanted some company." His eyes inflated till they resembled water balloons that were about to pop.

"Okay, Jesus Christ. I don't know what your problem is, but you'd better wipe that 'kicked puppy dog' look off your face right now or I'll do it for you." she said sharply.

He leaned in, his lips only a few millimeters away from hers. He was so close that his breath made her glasses go foggy. Her hand twitched, ready to slap him if he tried closing the distance.

"Fuck off." he murmured.

"Oooooh. Baby Mikey said the fuck word," Laura sneered, her hand flying to her cheek in mock horror. "Someone's got a stick up their ass today."

"That must mean a lot coming from the Wicked Witch of the prize counter—"

RIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIING—

The cashier grabbed the phone from off the receiver without breaking eye contact with Mike. She raised one finger.

"Hello, hello!" she said, her voice raising at least three octaves higher. "Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. Our special this week is a gourmet pizza made of parents' tears and empty wallets. How can I help you?"

"Hey, hey, uhhhh—Lauren! Long time, no see, dude!" a douchey, California frat boy-ish voice greeted her.

She groaned. Derrick Brady. One of the many would-be night guards and the biggest slimeball ever. She could almost smell the cheap beer and overpriced cologne.

"It's Laura." she said stiffly. "What do you want?"

"My bad, bro! Anyway, we're looking for some relics for our new haunted attraction, Fazbear's Fri—"

"Sorry, but that isn't on our menu."

Click.

Mike stared at her like she had spoken in some alien language. "Why do you talk like that?"

"It's scripted. That's how all employees are supposed to greet the customers."

"No, I mean the way your voice gets all high-pitched like that. You sound like someone's mom."

She glared at him. "The only thing that'll be high is when I put my foot high up your ass."

He held up his hands. "Sorry. So what was that about?"

"Nothing of importance," she said with a dismissive shrug.

"So...that 'gourmet' pizza. Was that a joke, or—"

"With that IQ, I'm astonished that you're still alive."

"Look, I'm really not in the mood for—this." Mike sighed, making a vague gesture.

"Well, you should have thought about that before—" she froze, her gaze locking onto his left hand, which was covered with several cartoon character-themed bandages. "What happened to you?"

"Uhhh, nothing." Mike said quickly, removing it from the counter. "Just a paper cut."

"Then you won't mind if I take a look." She thrust out one palm.

He swallowed hard and slowly placed his bigger hand in hers.

"Please. Don't flatter yourself," she snapped.

"Wouldn't dream of it." he muttered, staring at the ceiling.

She ripped off each bandage in one swift motion. Every once in a while, a pained squeak would escape through Mike's clenched teeth.

After a couple of minutes, Laura stripped the last bandage away, revealing a long, angry-looking cut that stopped at his wrist. She stared down at it for a long time, her pulse speeding up.

"A paper cut?" she echoed, dropping his hand. She kept her expression carefully controlled.

"Y-yeah. I was uh, writing a letter. And t-the envelopes are r-really big." Mike stammered tonelessly.

He was lying, but he wasn't even trying to sound convincing.

The guard glanced towards Pirate Cove and back. It was a quick, almost imperceptible gesture, but he paused just long enough for Laura to follow his gaze. He wanted her to know; he wanted her to help.

Then it all clicked—the cut; the way his mood ricocheted from desperation to irritability to fear like it was in a pinball machine; the shadows under his restless eyes; the hitch in his voice when he told his mother that he loved her, like he'd never see her again...

That wasn't the look of someone having a shitty day; that was the look of a man walking to the gallows.

The fox was going to kill Mike.

Laura dug her nails into her palms to keep them from reaching across the counter and shaking him. She'd warned him about what would happen if he stayed. But did he listen? No. If he died tonight, that was his problem.

"Well, good luck with that." she mumbled, reaching for her nail file.

Mike blinked, evidently surprised that she'd bought his lie. "Huh?"

"You should probably try a different envelope. The ones here have really sharp edges."

The guard's face fell. "Y-yeah, maybe."

"Go home. Get some sleep. You'll need it."

He just nodded, slowly shuffling to the door and disappearing into the rain without another word.

Once he was gone, Laura swiped her phone from under the counter and dialed her mom's number.

"Hey. Just wanted to let you know I won't be coming home tonight—it's nothing. I've gotta work late...Ughhh, I know, right? Applebee's would be lost without me...I'm gonna crash at a friend's house. I'll be back in the morning. You worry too much, Mom," she gripped her phone tighter. "It'll be just like a slumber party. Yeah, love you, too."

Laura jabbed the 'end call' button and glared directly at Pirate Cove.

"Tonight's gonna be fun. I'm bringing this cool new game. I think you're gonna love it. It's called 'Rip the Fox a New One.'"


	10. Phone Guy Is Dead

What's worse than finding a worm in your apple?

Finding your bitchy co-worker sitting in your office on the last night of your life. Oh, and the dying part.

Mike hovered near the doorway, staring at his surprise visitor.

Laura sat with her arms tangled across her chest. She leered up at him the way his mother did whenever she'd caught him sneaking out past curfew as a teenager.

For a full minute, neither of them moved or spoke. They just stared at each other.

"Um...that's my chair," he said lamely.

The cashier sniffed. "And they say chivalry is dead."

"Could we not talk about things being dead right now?" Mike sank into the other unoccupied desk chair, which creaked in protest.

"I think it's a bit late for that, dumbass. That's why I'm here."

Mike tugged on his earlobe, not sure if he'd heard her correctly. "Y-you're gonna help me?"

"I think that's a given." There was an edge to her tone like she was extremely annoyed about being his ally. Mike couldn't exactly say he was encouraged.

"I thought you didn't like me."

"I don't."

"So why are you helping me?"

She didn't say anything. Mike shook his head and went to retrieve the tablet.

RIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIING!

He slumped in his chair and groaned. "Not now. Go bother someone else."

Laura raised an eyebrow. "You gonna answer that?"

Huh. He'd never considered doing that. "It's no one important. But if you wanna deal with him, then be my guest."

The girl shot him a dirty look. "I'm not your goddamn secretary—"

"Hello, hello," a familiar voice called. "Hey! Hey, wow, day four...I knew you could do it."

Mike turned his attention back to the tablet, shaking his head.

"Hey, listen...I-I may not be around to send you a message tomorrow..."

Mike flinched when something pounded on the door—shit! Foxy! He flipped over to CAM 1C, his heart pounding wildly like a jackhammer. After a couple of moments of static, the grainy image of Pirate Cove flickered to life. To his faint surprise, the curtains remained tightly shut. Good. The longer they stayed that way, the better.

But the persistent banging continued. Both doors were open, so how could...

Mike slowly turned towards the telephone, fear spreading through his limbs. Oh, no.

"It's—it's been a bad night here. For me." Phone Guy's voice wavered like an unsteady Jenga tower. "Ummm...I'm kinda glad that I recorded my messages for you—uh, when I did."

More bangs. "N-none of the other animatronics are acting right. S-someone must've tampered with their facial recognition systems. They—they haven't tried getting in. They just...stare. I'm gonna try and hold out till morning. Maybe it won't be so bad—"

Mike glanced at the tablet again. Foxy glared back at him from the screen, his head peeking out from the curtains.

There was a crackling of static.

"T-they're still out here." The man's voice was hoarse with terror. The bangs were now accompanied by shouting and what sounded like the tinkling melody of a music box. Mike couldn't make head or tail of what the voices were saying, but it they didn't sound happy.

The next words were garbled by the constant bursts of static. "If—yellow—office—don't—eye contact—"

Mike glanced at Laura, who had been oddly quiet. She stared at the telephone, transfixed. Her shaking hands clenched into fists and then unclenched themselves again.

"Please—don't—anything—" There was a horrible scream, more static, and then all was quiet. Horribly, horribly quiet.

Mike squeezed his eyes shut. There was a dull ringing in his ears.

Phone Guy was long-winded and annoyingly chipper. And his advice wasn't really all that helpful. But he was really the first one at the restaurant to make him feel welcome. Even in his final moments, his first thought was to check on Mike. He never even got to meet his successor.

Dead. Phone Guy was really dead.

Mike was sitting in a dead man's chair.

Oh, God.

He leapt from his seat and recoiled like he'd been burned. He was going to die here.

He wildly looked around the office like a trapped animal. If he ran down that hall, he was dead. If he stayed here, he was dead. The best thing he could do was shut the doors and pray that the power didn't go out.

He moved towards the door to his left, his fingers hovering over the button.

"Don't even think about it, Schmidt."

"What?!" he squawked, spinning around to face Laura. "Are you fucking insane? Are you trying to get me killed?"

"And what good do you think shutting both doors is gonna do?" she shot back, her mouth twisted into a hard line. "It'll drain the power before 2:00 AM."

"So you w-want me to just sit here and wait for him to come in and kill me?" Mike asked, blinking back against the tears that clouded his vision. He just wanted to this to all be a terrible dream and to wake up safe in his bed. "You know what. Y-you win."

"What?"

"You were right, okay? I'm a fucking idiot and I deserve everything that's coming to me." he swiped angrily at his eyes. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

He'd never see his parents again. Would Maude come to his funeral? Would she cry for him? Would she realize that she made a horrible mistake by dumping him all those months ago?

There was a sigh and a squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Then a pair of smaller hands grasped his arms and guided him back to his chair. Mike gladly sank into it, his knees going weak.

"Breathe, Schmidt. Having a panic attack won't do you any favors tonight."

He kept his gaze trained on the floor, but didn't respond.

"Mike."

He looked up. Laura was kneeling in front of him, her grey eyes glinting like gunmetal.

"No one deserves to die like this. Especially not you." Her voice was low and fierce. "Now, listen. You're gonna pick up that tablet and keep doing your job. You think you can do that for me?"

The night guard let out a shaky breath and nodded.

"Good." Laura's expression didn't soften, but she gave his arm a light squeeze.

"You know, you're not so bad when you aren't calling me a dumbass."

"Don't get used to it," she said, dropping her hand. "Now I need you to tell me everything you know about—"

"No time. We're about to have company." Mike held up the tablet. Foxy was crouching low in front of the curtains like an Olympic runner, his head tilted sharply to the left. He was getting ready to sprint.

Laura jumped to her feet and marched into the hallway with quick, blunt steps.

"What are you doing?!" Mike hissed, his breath quickening as he rose out of his seat.

"Close the doors."

"Damn it, Laura! Get back in here!"

"If you know what's good for you," she growled, "then you will sit your skinny ass in that chair and shut the fuck up. This isn't the time to play hero."

"And that's not what you're doing right now?" Mike asked.

"I'm not gonna let that asshole lay a finger on you."

"H-have you seen Foxy? He's well over six feet tall! And you're—"

"Yes, thank you for reminding me that I'm short, string bean."

"He's fast, too! Super fast. And he's got that hook and really sharp teeth! He would rip you apart as easily as a piece of tissue paper. Did I mention the teeth?"

"Oh, now he gets it. It only took him half a week," she muttered.

"Please just—just come back inside." he said, swallowing hard. "I don't want you getting hurt or—"

"Look, I appreciate the concern. I know full well what that piece of shit is capable of. But I honestly don't give a flying fuck about any of it. I can only help if you're willing to trust me." Sdarave him a challenging glare.

Mike stared back, his lips pressed together tightly.

"Be careful," he said, pressing the button.

A familiar set of footsteps clacked from across the pizzeria just as the door lowered.

Mike pressed his face against the window as Foxy launched himself from the tiny stage and careened down the dingy, dark hallway like a stone from a slingshot. He came to a screeching halt when the door shut.

"Little pig, little pig, let me in." Foxy tapped the door with his hook before raking it across the metal with an awful, high-pitched screech that made Mike's eye twitch.

"Oh, but Grandmother, what a terribly small dick you have," an alto voice sneered from somewhere in the shadows.

"All the better to—wait, what?" He whirled around, searching for the heckler. "Who goes there? Show yerself!"

Laura emerged from the darkness with little fanfare. She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket and lifted her chin.

"Who the hell are ye, wench?" Foxy barked at the petite cashier.

She took a deep breath and spat at the fox in response. He leapt backwards with catlike reflexes, his pointed ears flattening. Then he turned to the window and slowly clapped his good hand against his the flat edge of his hook with an unpleasant, metallic clang.

"Well, blow me down," Foxy said. "First ye hide behind the doors and now this wee lass? Just when I thought ye couldn't be more pathetic. Lemme guess. Are ye two fuckin'?"

Mike spluttered, nearly choking on his own spit.

"You eat out your mother with that mouth?" the cashier asked coolly.

The animatronic's crooked jaw went slack, but he quickly recovered. "Step aside, lassie."

She flicked a piece of lint off her shoulder.

"Ye hear me? Move along or I'll do it for ye," he warned, taking a step closer.

"I swear to God, you touch me and I will quit my job, go to a four-year university and get a degree in engineering so I can take you apart piece. By. Fucking. Piece."

The fox blinked. And then he threw his head back and let out a raucous, humorless laugh. His eyepatch flipped upwards with every single "HA!" that left his voice box.

"Cheeky little thing, aren't ye, missy," he said. "Now run along while I rip yer little boyfriend apart."

"Schmidt's got both doors shut, so it's only a matter of time. So I'll make you a deal: if the power goes out before 3:00, then he's all yours."

Mike's throat went dry. The old metal fan continued to whir, but it felt like all of the oxygen in the office had been sucked up by a vacuum and replaced with stale, stifling air.

He checked the time on the monitor. 2:00 AM.

Shit.

Foxy folded his arms. "Not interested. He's a dead man either way."

"You're right. That doesn't seem fair. So let's spice things up. If the power doesn't go out by 3:00, Schmidt gets to walk free. But you get to kill me in his place. The guilt of my senseless, violent death would haunt him for the rest of his life."

Mike frantically shook his head, but Laura was making a point of not looking at him.

"Enough o' this," Foxy snapped, brandishing his hook. "I've waited long enough."

"Yeah, let's cut the crap. If you wanna get to him, you'll have to cut me down first." the girl glared up at the towering animatronic as if daring him to try.

Mike chewed on his bottom lip.

Foxy lowered his hook slightly. The minute action did not go unnoticed by Laura, whose lips curled into a barracuda grin.

"Awww, what's the matter?" she asked. "You've got no problem with attacking grown men, but you can't attack little old me?"

"I don't hurt womenfolk."

Mike blinked. So that's why Foxy didn't fight back when Chica body-slammed him on the second night. Not only was he a ruthless asshole with serious anger management issues, but he was also a gentleman. Foxy was just full of surprises tonight.

"Wow. You've gone soft since '97."

"Watch it, lassie," the pirate growled.

"It's been almost twenty years and you're still butt-hurt? You ever thought about getting a hobby like crossword puzzles or scrapbooking or entertaining kids—oh, too bad about that last one."

The animatronic cringed as if he had been backhanded across the face.

Mike dragged one finger across his throat, motioning for her to cut it out. He'd already tried being nice to Foxy last night, and that had been a disaster. Laura was venturing into dangerous territory and she didn't seem concerned about her safety. Whatever this was, this wasn't her trying to reach out to Foxy. This was bullying.

She shot Mike a stern look from the corner of her eye. Back off.

"Y'know what I find the most embarrassing about this?" she continued recklessly, puffing out her chest. "You could've easily finished that guy off right then and there. But you chickened out."

"Death was too kind a fate for that snivelin' jellyfish," Foxy said without blinking an eye. "If I see ever see him again, I won't hold back."

"Yeah, because you were clearly showing restraint when you attacked a helpless employee."

"Look here, ye little smart-ass! Fitzgerald was the worst thing to ever happen to this establishment! He had one job and he fucked it up!" Foxy spat.

"Well, what did you expect? It was his first day on the job! Everyone fucks up at some point! He was probably scared—"

"The only thing that lily-livered pansy cared about was savin' his own hide! He's incapable of puttin' the needs of others before his own. The guard's job is to keep the wee lads and lassies safe from harm—and he failed. It's his fault that five little ones vanished!"

Laura pursed her lips. "You loved those kids, didn't you."

Foxy's eyes dimmed for a millisecond. "More than the blue sea."

"Then why didn't you save them?" she asked in that light tone that meant she wasn't fucking around.

Mike raked one shaking hand through his hair. At this particular moment, he wasn't sure who was more terrifying: Foxy or Laura. The only difference between the two was the lipstick.

"If ye were a lad, I'd punch ye in the face," Foxy snarled through his clenched teeth.

"Sorry that I don't have a dick. And I'm sorry that you don't have one either," she said.

Mike bit down on his tongue to silence the laughter that was bubbling in his throat. This was like some really bizarre "yo mama" battle. Laura should have been an insult comic instead of a cashier.

"Why didn't you save them?" she repeated.

Foxy opened his mouth several times but would ultimately just snap it shut again.

"Guess they weren't too important."

Mike leaned away from the window, expecting an outburst from the animatronic that would shake the dust from the rafters. Any mention of the children was Foxy's berserk button, and Laura was hitting it like a friggin' game show contestant.

"The years have crept by like ships in the fog. But it's just as fresh as if it were yesterday." There was an aching weariness in the pirate's voice that simmered beneath the anger. "I lost everythin' because of a greasy lil' fuck," he jabbed his hook in Mike's direction, "like him."

"So lemme get this straight," Laura said. "You're telling me that Fitzgerald somehow grew a mouth of fucking shark's teeth and attacked himself. And you just happened to be there, minding your own business. And then everyone pointed fingers at poor, innocent Foxy.

"Oh, but that wasn't enough for Fitzgerald. So he singlehandedly turned the other animatronics against you. Just 'cuz?" She raised a criticizing eyebrow. "Now stop me if I'm wrong, but what happened to those kids was beyond your control. But everything that came after was all you. So why do you keep blaming that guy?"

"Because his kind ain't reliable!" Foxy roared. "Scum of the earth, the lot of 'em! Stupid college boys that do nothin' but sit in that office with their fingers up their asses fer $4.00 an hour! That's probably why that other idiot stayed here fer so long. All about the paycheck."

"Chuck."

"What?"

"His name was Chuck," Laura said quietly, looking away. "And he gave this place twenty fucking years of his life. He stuck with Fazbear Entertainment after all of the shit that you started. He loved this place and he couldn't have cared less about the shitty paycheck. He was the only one who voted against you being decommissioned after your little stunt back in '97."

Foxy's ears twitched.

"And what did he get in return? You and the rest of those tin cans in there ambushed him!" she continued, her voice rising. Her features were more severe in the flourescent light that streamed through the window. "And when they found his body the next morning—they just swept his death under the rug! And instead of scrapping you fuckers, they just let you continue on your merry way."

Mike stared. He had forgotten that the other animatronics were in on this. No. They said that they would never attack him. Right?

"I hate to burst yer bubble, lassie, but I didn't have the honor of killin' him," Foxy said. "But good riddance. At least the establishment is a lot quieter without his incessant ramblin'."

Laura was silent for several agonizing moments. She then looked at her wrist and then turned her attention towards Mike.

"It's 2:59. How much battery do you have?" she asked, her voice shaking with barely contained anger.

Mike's stomach went cold. He eyed the tablet sitting on the desk, but shook his head. He didn't want to know.

"Just look." She sounded a bit more calm than before.

With trepidation, he picked up the tablet and powered it back on. He closed his eyes and peeked at the screen through one eyelid. Then he gaped.

"What does it say?"

"...100%."

3:00 AM

Foxy's jaw dropped with a rusty creak. "What?! How did—"

"You didn't think I'd come unprepared now, did you?" Laura asked with a wry smile. "I blew $400 on a generator. So he can keep those doors shut for as long as he likes now."

Mike's dry lips parted. If it weren't for the door separating them, he could've kissed her.

"When you're done balking, you'll find Pirate Cove down the hallway. Now scram."

Foxy squared his shoulders and shook his hook at the cashier. "Ye sneaky, conniving lil' bitch!"

"And that's my middle name, motherfucker." Laura held out her fist in front of her and mimed dropping the mic.

Foxy let out a "ARGH!" and slammed his fist against the window, which shook from the force. Mike flinched slightly, but flashed a toothy grin at the animatronic and wiggled his fingers in farewell.

The pirate thrusted his hook into the air in what seemed to be a rude hand gesture, but growled when he realized he had used the wrong hand. He turned on his heel and stomped back down the hall.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"Oh! Sorry!" Mike scrambled up and pressed the door button. When the door rose, his smile faded.

Laura shuffled into the office and sank into her chair. The bravado from earlier had vanished. She stared past Mike, her jaw set, but her eyes distant.

"Are you—"

The girl lifted one hand. "Please, just—give me some space for a while. I don't wanna talk right now."

Mike frowned, but nodded. "O-okay."

The next three hours passed in silence. It was strange, not having to worry about the power going out. He honestly didn't know what to do with himself. He kept checking the tablet just to give him something to do. It was better than just twiddling his thumbs.

Ding-dong-ding-dong! Dong-ding-ding-dong!

Mike let out a huge breath. It was 6:00. The sound effect of the cheering children was music to his ears. He'd lived to see another day. Whenever he would see his parents again, he was going to hug them a little bit tighter.

He rose and nudged Laura.

"Hey."

He half-expected the girl to give him her signature "go to hell" scowl. But to his surprise, she didn't. There was something resigned and mournful in her gaze that made her look so much smaller.

"I-I wanted to say thank you."

She looked away. "Don't mention it."

"No, really," he said in earnest. "If it weren't for you, I probably wouldn't be standing here. I wish I knew how to repay you—"

"You wanna know how you can repay me?" Laura asked hoarsely. Her eyes were too bright and almost feverish. "You can start by quitting."

And he was back to square one again with her. "But the generator—"

"If you're really that determined to stay, I won't stop you this time. But it means that everything I did tonight was in vain. I overheard you talking to your mother yesterday. If you love your parents in any way, then don't do this to them. Don't do this to her."

"Don't do what?" He asked, his stomach sinking lower and lower.

"Don't die! The next time your parents see you, do you really want it to be lying under a sheet on a table that's too cold?"

Mike stared at her, unnerved by the bleakness of her tone. "You called him Chuck earlier."

She was silent.

"You knew him."

"I've worked here for four years. I never forget anyone that sat in this office."

"So you worked with him?"

"...You could say that," she said lowly.

Mike moved to the desk behind him and gently placed a hand on top of the outdated telephone.

"Thanks," he whispered. "For taking the time out to leave those messages for me."

Laura was watching him with a strange expression. "What?"

"There's no way he could have sent those messages to you."

"What do you mean?"

"Look at the date."

Mike furrowed his eyebrows, but looked down at the caller ID screen.

November 17, 2007.

His face blanched.

"Wait a minute. You've been here for four years. Chuck died long before that."

Laura shuffled past him. "Why does it matter to you? He's 'no one important,' right?"

Mike sighed. "I didn't know, okay? So who was he?"

Laura stopped in the doorway, her back turned. "You know what goes through my mind every time that a new guy walks through those doors?"

He shook his head.

"If...anything happens to him in that office, what is he leaving behind? Who is he leaving behind? Is he on good terms with his dad? When was the last time that he told his mom that he loved her? Who's gonna look after his dog when he's gone? Does he have a girlfriend? A boyfriend? Is he married? Does he have—"

Laura halted, her voice breaking off like the point of a newly sharpened pencil. She took a breath to steady herself and then continued. "Does he have kids? And if he—dies, how will their mother explain to them that their dad isn't coming home?"

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Mike asked.

Laura finally turned around, her eyes red-rimmed and burning with eight years of anger.

"Chuck Houndstooth left a daughter behind."

Then she left without another word.


	11. Some Boxes Are Best Left Unopened

Buzz! Buzz!

Laura cracked open one bleary eye. Her phone. She blindly searched for it in the darkness, finding it near her pillow. The time on the lockscreen was 3:45 AM.

"The hell?" she slurred, her voice rough from restless sleep. She typed in the password and went to the text messages. An unfamiliar number had texted one letter.

M.

Laura shook her head. Probably a wrong number. Just as her eyelids began to droop, more letters popped up.

I.

K.

E.

She sat straight up in bed, now wide awake. The next message made her blood run cold.

Help him.

She was on her feet without a second thought, peeling off her pajamas and throwing on an old sweater and jeans. Dammit, where was her other shoe?

Once she was dressed, she flew down the stairs, thankful that her mother was out with friends for the night. The laces on one of her sneakers were untied and her jacket was on inside out. She grabbed her keys from the kitchen counter and threw open the door.

She thrust the keys into the ignition of her old car and glanced over her shoulder as she backed out of the driveway. Her throat was tight, like a guitar string that was in danger of breaking.

Laura had never been the praying type. Well, not since her dad was killed. But as she raced towards the pizzeria, she whispered one thing.

"Please don't let it be too late for him."

11:45 PM

Mike had never really paid much attention to those old dog-eared drawings that cluttered the office. Some of them were so old that it was nearly impossible to discern what they were about. But there was one that stood out from the rest.

It was very simple and not quite as crumpled as the others. There was a faded tomato sauce stain, probably from handling the paper with sticky fingers. A little pink stick figure with a scribbly mess of yellow hair smiled up at a taller stick figure in a purple jacket. Under that was one word.

Home.

Mike reached out and carefully lifted the edges up to see if there was a date on the back. He didn't have to look at the scrawled signature to know it was Laura's. How old had she been when she drew this? Four? Five? 'June 23, 1999' was written in the bottom corner in tidier handwriting that could only belong to Phone Guy—no, Chuck.

He traced the wonky letters with his fingers, trying to imagine a tiny version of Laura with pigtails and a smile that revealed a newly lost tooth; one that skipped over every other floor tile because she was pretending that they were made of lava; one that hummed slightly off-key while she drew; one that babbled for hours on end about the little things that made her happy.

Just like her father.

He cleared his throat and turned to go back to his seat, but something in the corner of his eye stopped him.

Wait. What?

Mike rubbed his eyes. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was just his eyes playing tricks on him.

Muffled footsteps pattered down the halls. In a knee-jerk reaction, the guard shut both doors.

"Yoo-hoo!" a feminine voice trilled.

"Mike? You there, buddy?" It was just Bonnie and Chica.

"Yeah," he eventually responded.

"Smashing," Freddy muttered, strolling out of the darkness to stand beside the chicken.

Bonnie's face appeared in the window. "Hey, why are ya cooped up in there?"

"Um." Mike pressed his lips together. He should have been relieved to see them, not silently freaking out. But he was in the same situation as Phone Guy when he was killed—trapped in a tiny office with both doors shut, surrounded by animatronics that could crush him as easily as a soda can.

"Well?" Chica asked from her spot beside the rabbit. "You're actin' jumpier than spit on a hot skillet."

"I, um, I just—"

Bonnie's eyes widened. "Something happen last night?"

"Y-yeah, but—"

"Did Foxy get into the office?"

"Well, no—"

"Good Lord," Freddy exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "Let the boy finish his sentences!"

"I-I actually have a generator. So I don't have to worry about Foxy getting in anymore."

Bonnie grinned. "That's great!"

Freddy folded his broad arms across his chest. "So why are the three of us still waiting around out here?"

Mike was silent.

"It's because you don't want us to come in," the bear finished.

"…No."

Chica raised an imperious eyebrow. "Why not?"

Mike opened his mouth, but closed it again. His eyes flew to the telephone and then to Bonnie and Chica. After a moment of hesitation, he rose to his feet and slowly moved to the telephone. He pressed a button on the answering machine and the message from the previous night began to play.

He took a deep breath to steel himself. Even though he knew how the phone call ended, the horror of listening to a man die was still fresh. But he needed to handle this with a cool head, otherwise he would lose it. When the message ended, Mike turned back to the others.

Three sets of eyes stared backed at him in confusion. He'd expected anger, indignation, remorse, but not this.

"What was that?" Bonnie asked slowly.

"Do you remember Chuck?"

"Yeah…"

"T-that was him."

"And?" Chica said, one hand planted on her hip.

"And you just heard him die."

The trio went quiet for a full twenty seconds.

"What?" Bonnie's voice was small.

Chica clapped a hand over her beak.

"But what does it have to do with us?" Freddy asked in irritation.

Mike rewound the message to a specific point and pressed the play button. Chuck Houndstooth's terrified voice filled the office once again.

"T-they're still out here."

Four sets of fists pounded on the doors and a jumble of angry voices threatened to drown him out. Mike could just barely pick out a couple of words.

"Let us in—"

"You bastard—"

"Don't—"

He paused it again.

"Guys, those were our voices," said Bonnie, the pitch of his voice rising.

Freddy stared at Mike. "You think that we killed that man."

He looked down at his sneakers. "I dunno. Look, guys, I—I think I need some space tonight."

Bonnie shook his head, his ears swinging wildly. "We would never hurt you! You're our friend!"

Mike whirled around. "Did you say that to Chuck, too?"

Bonnie flinched.

"We didn't kill him," Chica said.

"How do you know? Do you remember anything about that night?"

The chicken opened her beak, but froze. She turned to Freddy for backup, but he shrugged.

"No," she admitted. "But why would we attack a good, hardworking man like him? He was nothin' but kind to us."

Mike sighed. "I can't deal with this right now; I need some time to think."

"But, Mike—"

"Please. Not now."

One by one, they slowly retreated to the dining area, leaving Mike alone again. He rubbed his eyes. Why were they surprised? Did they not know? Chuck had worked at the restaurant for twenty years; they would have at least heard about it, right? It didn't make any sense.

RIIIIIIING!

"Stupid piece of junk," the guard muttered, pressing the 'ignore call' button.

RIIIIIIING!

He jabbed the button again. "No. Stop it. You're dead."

RIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIING!

Mike stomped one foot on the floor and then dropped to his knees, searching the wall for the outlet. Aha! He yanked the cord from the socket and the ringing halted.

He sank back into his seat with a contented sigh. Finally, some friggin' peace and quiet. Come to think of it, now that Foxy no longer posed a threat, the tiny office was actually kind of…cozy. The rain on the rooftop was nothing more than a murmur and it was warm. So warm. A nap sounded glorious right now. He scooted his chair towards the back desk and laid his head in his arms. His eyes fluttered shut after a couple of minutes; the soft rain and the music box lulling him to sleep…

Wait. Music box?

His eyes flew open.

Sitting in the chair opposite him was a box. It was simply wrapped with a crisp red ribbon perched atop the lid. An unfamiliar tune wafted through the office like a sickly sweet perfume.

Mike stood, slowly approaching the box. Where did it come from? Both doors were shut, and there was no possible way anyone could have snuck in.

He crouched beside it, and tentatively lifted one hand, expecting it to be a mirage.

He was surprised when his hand made contact with the solid, very much real box. Okay, so this wasn't a dream.

Maybe it was a forgotten birthday present from a party earlier in the day. One of the employees must have put it in the office until they could contact the person that thr present was meant for. The problem with that theory was it was a big box; definitely something he would've noticed when he first walked in. Mike gripped the sides of the box and turned it around, observing it from all angles.

He frowned. "Huh. No tag. Weird."

He shook the present slightly. The music sped up a bit, its pace almost agitated. He pressed his ear to one side of the box; it was coming from in there.

Mike carefully set the present back down, his fingers tingling. Should he open it? No. If it was meant for his eyes, then his name would've been on the tag. It was none of his business. But then again, there was no tag.

One thing was for sure: that stupid song was starting to get on his nerves. If nothing else, he could turn the music box off.

"I guess one little peek won't hurt anything," he murmured, his fingers working though the ribbon's tight knots. Who the hell wrapped this thing? Once it was untied, he let it flutter to the floor.

He grasped the lid and pulled it off, throwing caution to the wind. The music came to an abrupt halt. Mike licked his lips and peered inside the box.

Empty.

"What?"

BWAAAAAA!

The guard jumped, his heart almost leaping into his throat. Once he'd gotten over the shock, he whirled around.

The intruder was just a scrawny kid with a party horn clutched in his hand. Very pale. A red bandanna was tied across his forehead.

"How the hell did you get in?" Mike asked, glaring down at the unwelcome visitor.

The boy flinched and ducked behind the chair. He couldn't have been older than eleven, but something in the genuine flash of fear in his eyes made him look much smaller.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Mike said, his expression softening a bit. "You just spooked me. How'd you even get in?"

"Surprise," whispered the boy. He had a quiet voice, like the rustle of dead leaves on the sidewalk.

Mike's mouth fell open in disbelief. "Y-you call that a surprise?"

"You don't like it," the boy said. "I don't blame you. I don't like surprises much either."

"Who are you?"

"No one important," he murmured, looking down.

"Hey, don't talk about yourself like that," Mike said. "Everyone's important."

The boy's somber expression didn't change.

"Are you lost?"

"You could say that."

"What's your name?"

The kid shrugged. "I'm nobody."

The guard sighed. "Look, this whole 'woe is me' attitude you've got going on is starting to get on my nerves. Do you have a name or not?"

"I had a name."

"So what's the hold-up?"

"I don't remember it."

Mike sat in his chair. "Okaaay, then. I'll just call you 'kid.'"

"That's fine."

"You know, you can sit down if you want," Mike offered. "We're gonna be here for the next six hours, so you might as well make yourself comfortable."

The boy was quiet, and then, "For real?"

"Uh-huh."

The boy reluctantly complied, as if he expected the chair to be pulled out from under him at any second. "Thanks."

Mike nodded, racking his brain for appropriate conversation topics for an eleven year-old. "Cool bandanna."

The boy tilted his head to one side. "Huh? Oh. Thanks."

"Are you a Ninja Turtle fan, too?"

"Yeah."

"Who's your favorite?"

"The one in the bandanna."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "They…all wear bandannas."

The boy rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh."

"My favorite's Raphael."

"Mine, too," the boy said quickly.

"Is he really your favorite or are you saying that because you don't know anything about the Ninja Turtles?"

"Yes."

The guard lifted his eyes to the ceiling. This kid was skilled at avoiding questions. This was going to be a long night.

"Enough about me," the boy piped up. "Let's talk about you. You're way more interesting."

"I am?" Mike asked dully.

The boy nodded. "Not only were you brave enough to stay, but Foxy didn't get you."

"That was just dumb luck," Mike said with a shrug. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for…hang on, how'd you know that, kid?"

The boy's expression was quizzical. "Know what?"

"About Foxy."

The boy was on his feet now. He pressed his hands against the window facing the east hall. "Look."

"What?" asked Mike with a groan.

"Out there. Something's changed."

"Nice try, kid."

"I mean it. Come look."

"You're just dodging the question. Besides, this could be another surprise."

"Only one way to find out," the boy simply replied.

Mike narrowed his eyes, but slowly stood up, ignoring the squeal of the old chair. He crossed the tiny room so he was standing beside the boy. His hand hovered over the door switch. He hoped that he wouldn't regret this.

He gulped and gingerly pressed the button. The door promptly rose.

Mike blinked. "Hey, did you turn on the lights?"

He glanced over his shoulder when he didn't get a response. The boy was gone.

Just then Mike heard it: music. Laughter. The crinkle of wrapping paper.

He slowly ventured down the now well-lit hallway and into the dining area. Everything was bathed in a rosy, faded glow like a movie flashback. The place was packed just like earlier in the week. Nearly half of the customers were dressed in corduroy and denim. Very preppy. It reeked of the Nineties.

The animatronics were scattered across the dining area. Bonnie was giving a high-five to a little boy; Freddy lingered onstage, scowling at the former. Chica approached a thin man wearing a purple jacket. She said something and then he jumped. She offered a hasty apology, and then retreated.

Foxy was sitting on the edge of Pirate Cove's rounded stage. It was so strange to see him without any tears in his suit. Sitting next to him was a skinny, bespectacled boy with light brown hair. He muttered something to the buccaneer and glared in the direction of a group of kids crowded around a table close to the main stage.

As Mike approached, a preteen girl with a mane of strawberry-blonde curls screamed in delight. He winced. Wait. There was only one person that had a police car siren where her voicebox should've been…

Fritz Smith.

She proudly lifted a box above her head. "A Nintendo 64! Thanks, Aaron!"

"It was nothing," said her father with a smile.

Her mother added, "Looks like you've got one more present left, Flannery."

The gift in question was a plain pink bag.

"Mom, don't call me that in front of my friends." Fritz made a face as she pulled the bag towards her and examined it. "No nametag. Laaame."

"Like, just open it," said a girl with a pink scrunchie on her wrist and a strong valley girl accent. She exhanged a sly look with a couple of her crimp-haired cronies.

Fritz promptly shoved her hand in the bag. Her face fell as she pulled out an envelope. "Oh, greaaat. A card. Must be from Aunt Ethel."

"Hold it up so everyone can like, see it," said the scrunchie girl.

"Okay, jeez!" Fritz complied and opened the envelope. Then she let out a screech of horror. Pink glitter rained down on her. It was everywhere. On her hands, in her hair, on her clothes.

For a full minute, no one spoke or moved. Then the kids all howled with laughter. Scrunchie Girl covered her mouth, but not before Mike got a glimpse of her victorious smile. Fritz skimmed the contents of the card and then zeroed in on the boy sitting next to Foxy with a murderous expression.

At that moment, the dining area went dark and twisted like tendrils of smoke after blowing out a candle. Mike was plunged into darkness. Then the light returned. Mike was now standing in a dimly lit room that smelled like sweaty socks. The shelf was lined with spare animatronic heads and various parts. The backstage room.

"It's like Frankenstein's lab. But smellier," he muttered, turning around. Then he froze.

A gangling figure loomed over him. Its body was inky black with long, striped limbs, like a daddy long-legs spider wearing gym socks. Its face was concealed by a mask. Or was that just its face? Well, its face was paler than the moon with blood red cheeks painted on. Its eyes were hollow and completely dark, save for the glowing pinpricks of light. And that smile..

Mike stared at the bizarre creature as it hoisted something from the floor like a ragdoll. No, someone. It was the boy that was sitting with Foxy earlier. The figure pulled him up so he was in a standing position. His head drooped against his chest and his glasses sat crooked on his face.

"Max! Where are ye, lad?" Foxy called from the dining area.

"Maybe he went back here," an unfamiliar voice said. The door swung open. "Wait, I found-"

The guard whirled around. Standing in the doorway was the young man that Chica approached earlier. He wore a spangled, purple jacket that was identical to Mike's…

Jeremy Fitzgerald.

"Ye found 'im, boy?" Foxy asked.

Jeremy couldn't speak. He was rooted to the spot, and his eyes were wide with terror.

Foxy appeared a moment later, unperturbed by the figure's appearance. "Ah. The Marionette found 'im. Musta been takin' a nap. Thank ye. We'll take 'im from here."

"I don't think so," The Marionette whispered, staring straight at Jeremy.

Foxy blinked twice, then laughed. "Is this one o' yer little games?"

"Not this time."

"Real funny. Let the lad go, Puppet."

The Marionette's tiny white eyes burned brighter, like the light at the end of a pitch black tunnel that Mike had no desire to reach the end of. "Don't. Call. Me. That."

Jeremy ducked behind Foxy, desperate to avoid the strange animatronic's gaze. The pirate shrugged him off.

"If you want him, come and get him."

Foxy ran forward, but the Marionette easily swatted him away with one long arm. "No, not you. Too easy. Mr. Fitzgerald, on the other hand, is perfect for this."

Jeremy frantically shook his head. "N-no! Y-you've made the past week a living hell f-for me."

The Marionette was silent for a moment. "You have no idea what hell's like."

"Please, just let the kid go," the dayshift guard pleaded.

"Where's the fun in that?"

"This isn't a game!"

"I'm not playing around," the Marionette replied shortly. "I have a rule: if you want a prize, you have to earn it."

"Max ain't one o' those flimsy trinkets!" Foxy growled.

"All you have to do is take him from me," the Marionette continued as if the pirate hadn't spoken.

Jeremy gulped and took the tiniest of steps toward the Marionette. Then he screamed, jumping backwards.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Foxy asked.

Jeremy pointed one shaking finger at something close to the ceiling.

Foxy followed his line of sight. "There's nothin' there, boy."

Jeremy whipped his head around and gaped at him. "Y-you don't see it?"

"There ain't nothin' to see!"

"There was a huge bear with really sharp teeth!"

"Quit spinnin' yarns."

"I'm telling you, it's right there—" he looked back again and went quiet. Whatever it was that spooked him was gone…along with the Marionette.

The day shift guard and animatronic stared at the empty space in silence that grew more frigid with every second.

It was in that horrible moment that Mike realized he was about to witness a train wreck, but he couldn't tear his eyes away.

Foxy slowly turned towards Jeremy. His eyes blazed and roared like a fast-spreading wildfire. "It got away."

"You've gotta believe me, it was really there!" Jeremy backed away, his eyes darting to the open doorway and back.

"Don't pee on me leg and tell me it's rainin', coward."

"B-but I saw—"

"It tricked ye! There was no fuckin' bear! Ye just let that overgrown sock monkey slip away. Now Max is gone and all ye care about is an imaginary bear!"

"Not another one," Jeremy said without thinking, and then his eyes went wide when he realized his mistake.

Mike hid his face in his hands and shook his head. This was not going to end well.

"What," Foxy snarled.

"Every now and then," Jeremy began in a delicate voice, "a parent would approach me throughout the day, asking if I've seen their kid."

"How many?"

"What?"

"How many others?" the buccaneer asked, his voice rising.

"F-four," Jeremy whispered.

Foxy was unnaturally silent. And then, without warning, he lunged at the man with a great shout. A scream tore through him as Foxy sunk his teeth into his arm.

Then the world went dark again, but Jeremy Fitzgerald's terrified scream hung in the air before fading away.

Mike let out a shaky breath. Now he understood where the animatronic was coming from. It was Fitzgerald's job to monitor the children, but for whatever reason, he let his fear of that weird puppet thing hinder him. He should have been more watchful.

The scenery changed in a split second. He was in the dining area again, where the younger version of Fritz sat alone. Her face was streaked with dried tears and glitter. She silently stared off at nothing for several minutes.

Then she glanced back at Pirate Cove, which was now curtained off and had the familiar "out-of-order" sign in front of it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Everything went dark again, but when the world rearranged itself again, Mike was still in the dining area. It was dark now and deserted.

"Why the hell am I still here?" Mike asked, looking around.

"Ain't that the fuckin' question of the year."

He poked his tongue against the inside of his cheek in irritation, angling his head in the direction of the voice. "For real?"

Foxy had him pinned against the wall in an instant. "Just when I thought ye couldn't get any stupider."

"Not now," he moaned.

"Yer ass is grass, and I'm the lawn mower," Foxy said, baring his teeth.

"Stop."

He whirled around in surprise, his hook raised. Mike craned his neck to see what had stopped him. Standing at the opposite end of the room was the boy who'd snuck into the office earlier.

Foxy stared down at him with a dazed expression, lowering his hook slowly. "Ahoy there, lad."

"Let him go," the boy said, leering up at Foxy with a hard expression.

"Run along now. This be no place for ye, lad," he said in a much kinder tone. Mike realized with a pang that this was the first time that the pirate had encountered a child in eighteen years.

"Let him go," the boy repeated, marching towards them.

"What are you doing?" Mike hissed.

"Helping," he replied.

"Dammit, kid! Just go home already!"

"Don't talk to the lad that way," Foxy snapped, tightening his grip on Mike's arm. He winced.

"Stop it! You're hurting him," the boy said, attempting to put himself between the guard and the animatronic.

"Butt out, kid," Mike pleaded, trying to put on a brave face. "I don't want you getting hurt…or worse."

"No, he won't. Foxy would never do anything to hurt a child."

"Damn straight," the pirate said, glaring at Mike. "How dare ye make such a claim?"

"No one asked you," the boy said with a hint of annoyance. He reached up and started fiddling with the back of his bandanna. "Besides he can't kill me."

"Whoa, I never said he would kill you. Why do you say that?" Mike asked.

The boy gave him a rueful smile as he let the red bandanna fall to the floor. "Cuz I'm already dead."

Mike gasped. The bandanna wasn't a bandanna. It was a blood-soaked bandage that had long since dried. A long, horrible gash zig-zagged all the way across the boy's forehead. The tiny puncture wounds made it look like he'd stuck his head under a sewing machine. Or he'd been mauled by a bear.

Foxy's grip on the guard slackened, staring at the wound in horror.

"Y-you're a ghost?" Mike asked, his stomach rolling.

"Aren't we all," the boy remarked.

Foxy gently set his good hand on the boy's shoulder. "Who did this to ye, lad?"

The boy recoiled. "People like you."

"Why are ye talkin' like that?" Foxy asked.

"Because you're a bully. You've done nothing but terrorize Mike and the other guys before him because of something that was out of your control. It's Jeremy's fault."

"Don't—wait, how'd ye know about Fitzgerald?" Foxy demanded.

"I have my ways."

"Who are you?" Mike asked hoarsely.

The boy looked from the guard to the animatronic and back again. "You really don't know."

Mike racked his brain and shook his head when he came up empty handed. "Nope, I've got nothing."

The kid huffed. He reached over his shoulder and procured a mask that was identical to the one that the Marionette wore.

Mike gaped. "Did you just pull that out of thin air?!"

"Uh-huh," he said as if it were no big deal.

Foxy stared at the mask. "Where'd ye get that?"

"You sure ask a lot of questions even though the answer's staring you in the face."

"I'm so confused," Mike said.

"Maybe this will ring a bell," the boy said, putting the mask on. What happened next was something straight out of a Tim Burton movie. His entire body turned inky black and his limbs grew longer and skinnier. He was even taller than Foxy now.

The Marionette grinned down at them, his face like the moon in a sky with no stars. "Surprise."


	12. Pop Goes the Weasel

Foxy the Pirate was in a unique predicament.

The candy ass night guard had left the safety of his office and wandered into the dining area in the dead of night. There was no doubt in Foxy's mind that Mike Schmidt was dumb as a dead goldfish. But he was beginning to wonder if he had a death wish as well.

He had the chance to kill the night guard, but he had no interest in him at the moment. Foxy had a one track mind and Schmidt was just a distraction. He had a bigger fish to fry.

The Marionette, better known as the two-timing bastard that took those kids, was back.

And there was going to be hell to pay.

"Ye got a lot o' nerve showin' yer face here," Foxy growled.

"Someone's quick to point hooks," the Marionette said simply.

Foxy's gears tensed. "Ye're treadin' through dangerous waters."

The Marionette stared down at him with that nauseating, cryptic grin. "Too soon?"

"Where the hell are they?" Foxy demanded.

"I dunno what you're talking about."

If he had blood, it wouldn't have just boiled; it would have burned his endoskeleton to a crisp.

Foxy stomped towards the taller animatronic, brandishing his hook. "Don't play coy, puppet!"

The Marionette's eyes flickered. "Back off, pirate. And don't call me that ugly name."

"The ad in the paper didn't say anything about this."

The two animatronics turned towards Schmidt, who had rediscovered his ability to speak.

The Marionette tilted his head slightly. "About what?"

"Ghosts."

"Oh."

Schmidt fell silent again, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Ye got a mosquito bite, boy?" Foxy asked, jerking his head in the night guard's direction.

"No..."

"Then stop rubbin' yer neck like a damn cat that got its blasted tail stepped on!"

Schmidt dropped his hand immediately, looking down at his feet. "Y-yes, sir."

"Does he make you nervous?" asked the Marionette.

Schmidt glanced at Foxy before quickly redirecting his gaze to the floor. "Terrified."

The pirate stood up straighter. Ye're damn right t' be scared, ye little bastard.

The Marionette was quiet for a moment. "Do I make you nervous?"

"A little creeped out, yeah."

Without warning, the Marionette grew shorter. His long limbs retracted until they resembled normal ones. He was back to his childlike stature; a full head shorter than the night guard now. His body was still completely shrouded in black from head to toe. The mask remained exactly the same.

"Better?" he asked.

Schmidt's uncomfortable expression relaxed, but just by a little bit. He slowly nodded.

"Now it just looks like I'm wearing a Halloween costume."

"Doesn't make it any less weird," said Schmidt.

"And it don't make ye any less of a thief," Foxy added harshly.

"You still can't do anything to me. I'm dead," the Marionette said, a note of smugness creeping into his quiet voice.

Damn it! The pirate locked his jaw and bared his teeth like a crocodile that had let its prey escape.

"You, on the other hand..."

"Ye've wreaked enough havoc just by showin' yer face here."

The Marionette peered up at him with that eerie smile. "Rubber glue back to you."

Schmidt took three steps backwards. He sensed that things were about to go downhill and he had no desire to be in the crosshairs.

Foxy glared down at the Marionette. "Best hold yer tongue before I knock that stupid grin off yer face."

His white eyes glowered from the depths of the mask. "That's why I'm gonna make you pay."

"For what?! I never did anythin' to ye before the Bite!"

"This is about what you're doing to Mike."

Foxy didn't even look in the human's direction. "What about him?"

"You're a bully," the Marionette said in unmistakable disgust. "It's people like you that made me what I am."

"Cry me a river, Pinocchio."

"I don't like people that hurt my friends."

Schmidt raised a dubious eyebrow and said, "I'm your friend now?"

The Marionette turned to him. "You're the one of the few people I've met in this lifetime and the past one that hasn't been a jerk to me."

The young man laughed uncomfortably under the Marionette's solemn gaze. "I'm sure you're a cool kid...ghost...whatever. But I don't think..."

"It's bad enough that I was murdered and I'm trapped as a creepy puppet," the Marionette said in a small, sincere, but deliberately sad voice that made Foxy's gears grind. "I died without any friends."

Foxy fought the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. This idiot was being guilt-tripped into siding with the Marionette. Not that he wanted the scrawny human on his side. He'd rather shove swords through his eyes.

Schmidt stared down at the smaller figure in a mixture of pity and wariness. "Look...I'm sorry for whatever happened to you. But I have to say no."

Foxy did a double take. Well, I'll be damned.

The whites of the Marionette's eyes disappeared, leaving them nothing more than bottomless pits. "What."

"No," Schmidt repeated in a more firm voice. "I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but no thanks. And even though I don't agree with what Foxy did..."

Foxy went still, waiting for him to continue.

"...I understand where he's coming from."

He shook his head. Not this again. Didn't the idiot learn his lesson from the last time he tried this?

"No, really," Schmidt said with an earnest expression. "Were you and Max close?"

Foxy's gears twisted at the mention of the boy's name. "How did ye-"

"It's a long story and God knows you hate hearing me talk. So just answer the question."

Foxy blinked at his brusque tone, but nodded. "Aye."

"He didn't look too happy."

"He wasn't. I was one o' the only friends the boy had."

Schmidt turned back to the Marionette, folding his arms across his chest. "I don't know what the hell your problem is, but you had no right to steal Max or any of the other kids. They had family that's probably still worried sick. And you just took them away.

"It affected Foxy, too. I don't know what he was like then. But if the person he is now is any indication, you tore his whole world apart. Someone told me that no one loved the kids more than he did." Schmidt looked at the taller animatronic. "You don't have to like me. I understand if you still wanna kill me. But I can agree with you on one thing: Fitzgerald was a selfish coward. The kids' safety comes first. Anyone that thinks otherwise doesn't deserve to wear this security jacket."

Foxy stared at the night guard, dumbstruck. There was no hint of fear in the boy's expression.

The Marionette's eyes burned even brighter. "You're. My. Friend."

Mike shook his head in disbelief. "No, I'm not! I don't even know you, kid! You can't just decide someone's your best friend when you've hardly even talked to them. That's not how the real world works!"

The Marionette was silent for a long time. Then he raised one hand into the air and snapped his fingers. The sound cut through the silence like a knife through a crisp apple.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Foxy scoffed. "I be quakin' in me boots-"

Before he could continue, a monstrous bear with a stomach full of razor sharp teeth appeared out of thin air. It let out a guttural roar.

Mike jumped backwards, almost tripping over a chair. "Holy shit!"

Foxy rubbed the eye beneath his patch with his good hand. "What in the blazes?!"

The Bear turned in the pirate's direction, staring at him with its beady, blood red eyes. Its ramshackle suit was a dingy, dirty shade of gold.

"Let's play," whispered the Marionette.

The Bear lumbered towards Foxy, his maw opening wide to reveal rows of countless daggerlike teeth. The next few seconds passed in slow motion.

He raised his hook. If this was the end of his rope, he wasn't going down without a fight.

"NO!"

Before Foxy could even process who said it, something barrelled into him and knocked him out of the way. He caught himself before he hit the floor and looked up just as the nightmarish yellow bear clamped down on Mike Schmidt's head.

A chill ran through Foxy's wiring, rendering him speechless. That idiot just had to play hero.

"Huh. Didn't see that coming," said the Marionette in faint surprise.

The Bear released its hold on Mike when it realized its mistake. Foxy was even more surprised to see there was no blood. The night guard was sprawled on the floor like an old rag doll.

Foxy inched forward and gingerly nudged Mike's torso with his foot. He didn't stir.

The pirate nudged him again.

Nothing.

Foxy whirled around to face the Marionette. "What the fuck did that kraken with fur do to the lad?!"

"Relax. He's just asleep."

Foxy balked. "Just asleep?"

"Well, he's trapped in a world between sleep and wakefullness. Dream and nightmare. Whatever you want to call it."

He knelt beside Mike and lightly smacked his face. "Wake up, candy ass!"

"You're fighting a losing battle," said the Marionette with a sigh. He snapped twice and the bear vanished.

"Wake him up!"

"I can't."

"Ye can summon an overgrown teddy bear from Davey Jones's locker, but ye can't wake someone up?" asked Foxy with an outraged expression.

"I. Can't. He has to wake himself up. If he can find his way out, that is."

"How does he do that?"

"Not my problem," he said with that infuriating smile. "Well, this has been fun."

He leaned down until his eyes were level with Foxy's. "I'll tell Max you said hi."

Without breaking eye contact, the Marionette snapped his fingers and disappeared in the night.


	13. The Toy Chest

4:12 AM

"Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you..."

Foxy jumped to his feet, turning in all directions in search of the noise. "What the hell?!"

The music carried on for a little bit longer before coming to a halt.

Buzz! Buzz!

Mike was still snoring on the floor. The pocket of his security jacket was lit up. It buzzed again. Using his good hand, Foxy carefully reached into Mike's pocket and pulled out a cellphone. There was a missed call from an unknown number. And one text message.

(***) ***-1987.

The sender must have picked up on Foxy's confusion, for another text quickly followed.

Laura.

Foxy went still for a moment.

He had done nothing but make Mike's first week a living hell, but he didn't let fear deter him from coming back each night. He had thrown himself in harm's way just so Foxy wouldn't have to endure any more suffering.

Damn it, he hated being in someone else's debt.

With a sigh, he snatched the phone from off the floor and set it on the nearest table. He leaned down at a comically low angle and peered down his long nose at the tiny screen. How did these contraptions work? Was he supposed to just tap it? The first step of sailing across an unfamiliar sea was to test the waters.

The fox tapped the area on the screen that said 'compose new message.' Nothing happened. He tried and tried again to no avail. He let out an irritated "argh" and tapped it with more force. Was the glass supposed to crack when you poked it? He would have a time explaining that to Mike when he woke up.

If he woke up.

He looked from the phone to Mike and back again, hatching an idea. Using his hook, he hoisted him off the ground by the collar of his security jacket. He carefully lowered him into the chair like a prize in the crane game. Mike continued to snore, his head lolling to one side.

Foxy took hold of the boy's index finger and tapped the screen again. The keyboard appeared. He hesitated. It was the dead of night. There was no way in hell that Laura was still awake. What if she didn't see the message until it was too late?

No. It was now or never.

With renewed determination, Foxy moved Mike's finger and pressed M. It turned out that puppeteering a human who was basically dead weight was no easy feat. As he went to press the I button, Mike nearly slipped out of the chair. Foxy somehow managed to catch him before he hit the floor.

Once he'd positioned the boy so he was sitting upright, Foxy resumed the clumsy texting. After several painstaking minutes, he'd written Mike's name one letter at a time. He pressed 'send.'

Now he needed to get Laura's attention in a message that was short and to the point. But how does one say that a supernatural sock puppet, who took a bunch of kids, just decided to pop in? How does one say that the sock puppet brought along the Care Bear from hell, which decided to use Mike's head as a chew toy? And now he was trapped in some sort of nightmare world and may or may not wake up?

How does one say all that? Not quickly.

All Laura needed to know was that Mike was in danger.

Throwing caution to the wind, Foxy typed out one last message:

Help him.

He pressed 'send.'

Foxy glanced down at the young man, who was now slumped over the table at an angle that didn't look comfortable. After some consideration, he picked him up by his collar and then lifted him over his shoulder with ease. He moved towards Pirate Cove with swift steps and pushed open the curtains with his hook. He was so accustomed to the dark that he could have maneuvered the tiny stage blind-folded. He carefully set Mike down on the hard wood floor. It wasn't much of an improvement, but it was the best he had to offer.

Foxy looked towards the gap in the curtains with a grim expression. Now all he could do was wait.

The familiar whir of a fan slowly coaxed Mike out of sleep.

He must have dozed off in his office. This whole night owl thing wasn't his cup of tea. And his desk was so comfy and soft. Did he really have to wake up?

After a couple of minutes, he opened his eyes. It was dark. Really dark.

Once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he lifted his head from off of his desk...

Wait. His desk didn't have pillows. Or a quilt.

Mike sat up. He could just barely make out the outline of a lamp in the darkness. He reached over and pulled the chain. It didn't turn on.

"What the hell?" he muttered. Then his hand brushed against something on the top of the quilt. He squinted in the darkness. A flashlight. He found a button on the side and pressed it. A beam of pale light illuminated his surroundings. Mike rose to his feet and looked around.

This was definitely not his office. It was a child's bedroom, with blue patterned wallpaper that was outdated. A few toys were scattered across the floor. There was a dresser with one of the drawers left open. To his left, there was a closet. Nothing special.

There was no sign of dust. It was like someone had just left moments ago and would be back any minute.

But he had a feeling that whoever lived in this room had been gone for a long time.

Mike slowly moved to the door and cracked it open. All was quiet.

He crept out into the dark hallway and aimed the flashlight in various directions. There were several doors.

He was opening one of them before he could even decide if it was a good idea. His body moved like it was on auto-pilot and his mind had taken the backseat.

The beam of light fell on one of the beds. Sprawled across it and snoring loudly was...Freddy? No. This Freddy was stockier, brightly colored, and made of what seemed to be a shiny plastic material.

"Hey," Mike whispered.

Nothing.

"Hey," he said again, cautiously reaching out and poking his arm. To his surprise, his fingers brushed against skin instead of plastic.

Freddy continued to snore, rolling over slightly.

"Forget it," Mike said with a sigh, turning to leave.

"Hi!"

He not only dropped his flashlight, but lost his balance in his attempt to catch it and toppled to the floor.

"Huh? Wuzzgoinon?" a second voice slurred.

Once he was sure that he hadn't broken anything, Mike groaned and sat up.

"Hello? You alright there, friendo?" asked a voice that was far too chipper for this time of night.

"Y-yeah."

There were footsteps. "Here, you dropped this!"

"Thanks," he said, taking the flashlight from the stranger's hand.

"Let's get some better light in here! Just let me find the foot stool."

A couple of minutes later, the lights were on. A strange, childlike figure hopped down from the stool and waddled towards Mike. He reminded him of one of those singing children in the "It's a Small World" ride at Disneyland. He was very short and round with big blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and a little propeller hat.

"T-thanks," Mike said.

"You're welcome, buddy!"

The bear rolled over. "Could ya pipe down, pipsqueak? And turn out the damn lights! Some of us are tryin' to get some shut-eye."

"Sorry, pal!"

"Didn't mean to bother you," Mike said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Nah, it's cool," the bear mumbled, waving a large hand. Unlike the original's plummy accent and pompous mannerisms, this Freddy had a casual, rough-around-the-edges, but easygoing air about him. His voice had hints of a Brooklyn accent.

"Who are you guys?"

"That's Toy Freddy," the baby-faced figure said, nodding at his companion, who was snoring again. "And you can call me BB!"

"B...B?"

He tilted his head. "Short for Balloon Boy!"

Mike raised an eyebrow. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know. "That's...cool."

"I know, right? But enough about me! Who are you?"

Mike slowly inched towards the doorway. "Uhhh, I'm...Oscar. And I've gotta go to the...bathroom. Bye!"

He shut the door behind him just as BB said, "You can follow me on Tumblr...I follow back!"

Mike rubbed his eyes. This was one weird dream.

TWANG!

He jumped slightly, almost dropping his flashlight again.

TWAAANG!

The noise was coming from the door to his left. He tiptoed closer and pressed his ear to the door. And immediately regretted doing so.

"ALL AROUND THE WOOORLD, STATUES CRUMBLE FOR ME-"

Mike clapped his hands to his ears. He couldn't tell which was worse: the singing or the out-of-tune guitar.

The door to BB's room opened and Toy Freddy peeked out. "Hey, Oscar. Tell Christina Aguil-airhead that some of us are tryin' to sleep!"

"W-who?"

"Toy Bonnie."

Mike nodded. "Sure!"

The bear gave him a small smile. "Thanks. You're the first sane person I've met in a long ass time."

The door closed again.

So this Bonnie was a girl. This was new.

After some hesitation, Mike knocked. The racket came to a halt and there was an exasperated groan.

A moment later, the door swung open, revealing what appeared to be Toy Bonnie. This one was lean and sky blue with big, shiny green eyes that belonged in an anime.

"Yo, what the hell, dude? You're totally marshing my mellow!" she exclaimed.

"Marshing your what now?" Mike asked, a little taken aback.

"Marshing my mellow," Toy Bonnie said, crossing her arms. "I was jamming, then you put it back in the cabinet even though you're supposed to put in the fridge."

Hate to break it to you, sister, but you never had any mellow to marsh in the first place.

The rabbit stared at him with a slackened jaw. "You've got a lot of nerve, you jerk!"

"Aw, darn, did I say that aloud?" Mike asked, not the least bit sorry.

He considered himself a nice guy 90% of the time. But not when it came to music. In the fifth grade's production of You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown, he ridiculed the kid who played Linus for going off-key during rehearsal. How did Mike wind up being the understudy while a kid that couldn't even sing on pitch got the part? The boy was reduced to tears and the teacher ordered Mike to apologize. He'd said that it wasn't his fault that the kid couldn't take constructive criticism. Or sing.

That remark earned him a trip to the principal's office. What could he say? Musical theater brought out the worst in him.

For a minute, Toy Bonnie's ears drooped and lowered her eyelids as if she were going to cry. Then she puffed herself up. "You're just jealous."

Now it was Mike's turn to gape. "What?"

"It takes a lotta skill to sing and play guitar at the same time!"

"It doesn't take a rocket scientist to play the same three chords."

"I was going for the miniaturistic approach," she said with a superior sniff.

"It's minimalistic," Mike said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Whatevs. You obviously don't appreciate art."

He opened his mouth and then snapped it shut, turning to leave. "Not worth it."

A slender yellow hand grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt and pulled him backwards with surprising strength.

"Aw, you're just gonna like, leave when the fun's just getting started?" a woman asked, very close to Mike's ear. Her voice was like scissors on velvet and sent shivers down his spine.

He turned around and found himself face to face with the avian hotness that was Toy Chica. Unlike the original, this one was...provocative. She had a wasp waist, glorious legs, and a bib that said "Let's party!" She was every fanboy's wet dream.

"Not my cup of tea," Mike finally said, unable to stop staring.

"You don't have a girlfriend, do you, hon?" she asked, running her hands over his shoulders. "I can make you forget her."

He squirmed. "N-no."

"Then like, what's the hold up?"

"Uhhh, I'm...gay?" Mike lied, unhappy about resorting to desperate measures.

Toy Chica blinked, batting her long eyelashes like wings. "That's alright."

"No, I'm good," he said, crossing his arms. "Besides, I'm not attracted to fast food."

She dropped her hands and planted them on her hips. Her flirtatious expression twisted into something poisonous. "What the hell did you just say to me, you worthless little circle jerk?"

He immediately began to backpedal. "Uh, I-I didn't mean...you're j-just not..."

"Your mom must have effed up with the coat hanger, hon."

Mike slowly shook his head in disbelief. "You know, the more you talk, the less attractive you are to me."

"Well, it's a good thing you're gay," Toy Chica said, pinching his cheek hard. He winced, but didn't break eye contact.

Just as he was about to respond, his attention drifted to the bright pink scrunchie on her left wrist. He'd seen it before...

"My eyes are up here, scrub."

"You wouldn't happen to know someone named Fritz, huh?" asked Mike. The wheels in his head were starting to turn.

Toy Bonnie scoffed. "Oh, her. The big mouth wannabe who thought she was all that and a bag of chips. As if!"

"Hon, do us all a favor and shut your mouth before I staple it shut for you," said Toy Chica with a vicious smile.

"Sorry," Toy Bonnie said in a small voice, looking down at the carpet.

The chicken glared at Mike. "Get. Out."

"What?"

"You heard me," she hissed, bearing down on him. "Out. Now."

"Wait! Where'd you get that scrunchie?" Mike asked, moving backwards until his back hit the door.

Toy Chica reached around him, opened the door, and shoved him back into the hallway. "If you wanna make out with a dude, BB's room is two doors down." Then the door snapped shut.

He glared at it for a moment and then turned on his heel and stalked off. That bitch made Laura look like Mother Theresa.

"How am I gonna get out of here?" Mike muttered, moving further down the hallway.

"Oh, a visitor. What a pleasant surprise."

Mike glanced to his right and stopped dead in his tracks. Creeping towards him was a creature that was supposed to be Toy Foxy. Emphasis on 'supposed to be.'

He'd thought that the original Foxy's appearance was rough around the edges, but this one was ten times worse.

Its entire body was a bizarre jungle gym of twisted metal, with the occasional hand or foot sticking out in all the wrong places. The most unsettling feature was that it had two heads: the endoskeleton's head and the costume's head. The latter had the same facial structure as the original Foxy, but its color scheme was white and pink. Was it wearing...lipstick?

Both of its heads leered at Mike with unreadable yellow eyes. It didn't move any further than the doorway.

"H-hi," he said, unsure of which head he should address. "Y-you're Toy Foxy, right?"

There was a long stretch of silence.

"Mangle," was the strange animatronic's quiet reply.

"Is...that your name?" Mike asked. His scalp prickled like a million spiders were crawling through his hair.

"Yes and no."

He slowly nodded, hoping he didn't look as clueless as he felt. "Okaaay, then."

Both of the animatronic's heads tilted to the right in sync. "Why don't you come in?"

Mike instinctively took a couple of steps backwards, clutching his flashlight.

"Relax," the animatronic said with a sigh. "I'm not going to rip your head off or anything like that. Not my style."

He still didn't budge, not too keen about getting friendly with Mr. Potato Fox.

The animatronic's heads turned to face each other as if having a silent debate. "Hold on."

It reached up and grasped its costume head with one hand and removed it as easily if removing a mask...

Oh.

Before Mike could blink twice, the creepy animatronic disappeared. A young man leaned against the door frame in its place, a mask dangling from one finger. He was tall, angular, and wore horn-rimmed glasses...

Mike's breath hitched. "You're that kid from the birthday party."

The man's expression was neutral. "Be more specific."

"Max, right?"

"Bingo," he replied. He went quiet again, patiently watching Mike from the doorway.

"Oscar," he said, his tongue like sandpaper.

Max regarded him for a moment and then flicked the lights on in his room. "Come on in."

"Thanks," Mike mumbled, sidling past him. His room was neat, but impersonal. No photos on the wall, no mementos on the table.

Max sat criss-cross legged on the bed. "Have a seat."

Mike reluctantly complied, sitting on the edge of the mattress. There was nothing hostile about the way he said it, but it wasn't inviting either.

"Well, don't bombard me with questions," Max said in a low, cool voice that reeked of boredom. He struck Mike as the type of guy that hung out in dimly lit cafes and wrote slam poetry.

"Right, uhhh...how did you...change?" Mike asked. "Your appearance, I mean."

"Pass. As much as I love the sound of my own voice, you'd be here all night. I won't bore you with the details."

"Who are the others?

He polished his glasses with a corner of his t-shirt and then put them back on. "That, I can answer. They were there that day."

Mike's pulse quickened. "The birthday party."

The corners of Max's mouth quirked slightly. "You're catching on quick, kiddo."

"What are their names?"

"Aaron. Jessica. Todd. Stacy."

"Why were you all kidnapped?

"Reasons."

"You're not gonna tell me, are you?" Mike said, beginning to get frustrated with the one step forward, three steps back nature of this conversation.

"It's not my place to answer," Max replied, his gaze wandering around the room; he was losing interest.

"He misses you," Mike said.

Max looked up sharply. "Who?"

"Foxy."

His expression softened a bit. "How is he?"

"He's...great."

Max gave him a once over, eyes lingering on his jacket. "So you're a security guard."

"Yep."

"You wanna get out of here?"

Mike nodded vigorously. "Yeah, can you help me?"

"I can, but I need to know that I can trust you."

"Okay," he said with a frown.

"It's nothing personal. When you've been kidnapped by a supernatural animatronic and live with a bunch of people that you don't particularly care for, you learn who you can trust."

"You've got a point. So what do you want from me?"

"You tell me about yourself," said Max, "and I'll help you get out of here. Seem fair?"

He hesitated, tapping his chin with one finger. It wasn't like Mike had been asked to bring him brains. He'd told a bunch of animatronics about his personal life, so how was this any different. "Yeah."

Max stood and strolled into the hallway. "C'mon. We can take the scenic route while you talk."

Mike grabbed the flashlight and scrambled after him. "Hey, wait up!"

The taller man stood at the end of the hallway, twirling a ring of keys on one finger. "Alright, Oscar. Essay question: why'd you start working at Freddy's? Keep it short and sweet."

Mike looked away. "Bad breakup. I wanted to get over her. A clean slate. So I got a job."

"Have you ever been to Freddy's before this?"

"No," he said, fighting the urge to rub the back of his neck.

Max stared him down, his glasses gleaming in the glow of the flashlight like they were some sort of force field. Then he turned and unlocked the door. "Okay."

"That was it?" Mike asked, somewhat baffled. That was anticlimactic.

"Yep," Max said. "Deal's a deal. Do you want to get out of here or are you just content with standing there all night?"

Mike hurried through the doorway without having to be told twice. Max quietly closed the door behind him. This hallway was dead quiet. There were no crickets. No dogs barking. No moonlight. No windows. Just darkness. It wasn't so much a hallway as it was a claustrophobic tunnel of ugly wallpaper. The only other door was at the opposite end of the hall.

"That's your way out," Max said, leading the way.

"Thanks," Mike whispered as they approached the door.

"No, thank you. You made this so easy."

"You're welcome, I guess," Mike replied, reaching for the doorknob.

"One more question."

"What?"

"You said you're an actor, right?"

Mike went still, not turning around. "I never told you I was. Who told you that?"

"Uh, uh, uh. Don't get defensive. Just answer the question."

He sighed. "Yeah, I am."

"Now was that so hard?" Max asked in a tone doctors use after giving a shot.

"No."

Satisfied, he unlocked the door and gestured for Mike to go through.

Mike licked his dry lips and crossed the threshold. The minute he did, Max shut the door. And locked it.

"By the way," he said from the other side of the door, "If you were auditioning for Bullshit: The Musical, you wouldn't even make it as an understudy, Mike."

Mike's throat went dry. "How did you-"

"Lying is a form of acting. If you can make yourself believe it, then others will believe you. And I don't believe you."

"I dunno what you're talking about," Mike said. If his heartbeat got any faster, he was certain it would grow tiny legs and shoot out of his chest.

"You got dumped and then you suddenly got the desire to work at some random restaurant you've never heard of? Just to get over her? Do you honestly believe that?" Max asked sharply.

Mike switched his flashlight on and his eyes went wide. "What the hell?"

"You didn't start working at Freddy's because you wanted to get over that girl."

He backed up against the door, staring at the scene before him. "This isn't the exit."

"Quite the opposite, actually."

"Open the door!"

"You started working there in the hopes you'd run into her."

He jiggled the doorknob, frantically glancing behind him. "This isn't funny!"

"You started working there because you want her to take you back."

In response to that, Mike delivered one swift kick to the door with every ounce of strength he had.

"Did I strike a nerve?" Max asked, sounding faintly amused.

"You said this door would get me out of here," Mike said, his voice shaking.

"I said it was your way out. I never said where."

"You lied to me!"

"And Bingo was his name-o."

Mike pounded his fists against the door. "Let me out! We had a deal!"

"You should have known better than to trust a fox that had two heads."

4:45 AM

"Where. The. Fuck. Is. He."

Foxy used the exposed metal of his good hand to sharpen his hook, not even looking up. "Good mornin', sunshine."

Laura Houndstooth stomped into Pirate Cove and jabbed a finger at Foxy. "You never stop, do you, asshole."

"Calm yerself, lass," Foxy said, stopping to examine his work. "If I wanted to kill 'im, I woulda done it already. I'm the one who called ye here."

The cashier let out a contemptuous bark of a laugh. "Is this your sick idea of a joke? You called me here just so I could watch you rip Schmidt apart? Is that it?"

The animatronic fixed her with a glare that was devoid of anything that resembled humor. "I don't joke, lass."

Laura glared right back. "Where is he."

Foxy jerked his head towards the spot where Mike lay on the floor, still unconscious.

Laura raced over and kneeled beside the night guard, nudging him. "Schmidt? Can you hear me?"

He didn't respond.

She shook his shoulders. "Wake your ass up, Schmidt!"

Nothing.

Laura slowly turned to Foxy, her jaw clenched. "What the fuck did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything; it was the Marionette."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Argh, I'll explain later."

"And what makes you think I'm interested in anything you have to say?" Laura asked, crossing her arms.

"I didn't ask fer yer approval, ye salty wench," Foxy snapped, "So swallow yer pride, shut that trap o' yers, and listen."

"When hell freezes over, you son of a bitch."

"Ye're a right piece o' work."

"You're no fucking ray of sunshine, yourself."

"Are ye always this charmin', princess?" Foxy asked, drawing out every syllable of the nickname like a swear.

Laura's eyebrow twitched. "Oh, yeaaah. My life's just like a Disney movie. But without the singing, woodland animals, and overall sense of joy. And my dad's dead. So, yep. Just like Disney."

The bickering was interrupted by a low moan.

They both snapped their heads in Mike's direction. His eyes were still shut and his face scrunched up slightly.

"Looks like he be wakin' up," said Foxy.

"Thank God."

Then Mike started screaming.


	14. The Prize Counter Girl

"Schmidt! Wake up, lad!"

"This isn't funny! Wake the fuck up, dumbass!"

Mike thrashed on the floor like a drowning man, screaming something incoherent. If he kept this up, he'd wake the entire block.

"Calm him down, lass," Foxy shouted above the racket.

"Like we weren't doing that already?" Laura asked.

"Ye're a woman! Ain't this yer territory?"

"You think I'm some sorta fairy princess 'cuz I saved his ass one time?"

"I'm not sayin' ye have to kiss him!"

"Then what," she said, "do you expect me to do?"

"Try talkin' to him."

Laura raised both eyebrows. "About what? The weather?"

"Fer the love o' Neptune, lass," Foxy grumbled, glaring up at the ceiling. "Just get on with it."

The cashier shot him a withering look. "Fine."

Foxy went quiet then, watching intently from upstage.

Laura turned towards Mike, who had curled himself into a ball. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead like dew on a spiderweb in the dull, grey light.

"Uh, hey," she said. Her throat was dry, much to her annoyance. "Dunno if you can, uh, hear me. But you're gonna lose your voice if you keep screaming like that."

She waited until Mike eventually quieted down. The screams were replaced by soft whimpers. It was a start.

"Schmidt?" She cautiously placed one hand on his shoulder. She wasn't surprised when he flinched away from her touch.

"Okay, look," she said, looking away. Why was this so hard? "I dunno what to...I'm not..."

Laura kept her gaze trained on Mike, refusing to acknowledge the pair of yellow eyes that were boring holes into the back of her head. "I'm not good with words, okay? That was...that was always Dad's thing."

Her voice cracked at the end and she hated it. No. She wasn't going to let that asshole pirate see her like this. Like some sad, pathetic little girl.

"You've gotta wake up. You're too damn stubborn for it to end like this-"

Mike's eyes snapped open without warning and he scooted back towards the wall. His breathing was ragged and his eyes darted this way and that. Like he expected something to leap from the shadows. Foxy and Laura held back, neither wanting to approach the guard until he'd calmed down.

"Laura?" he asked hoarsely, his eyes settling on her. "W-what are you doing here?"

"Captain Emo over here got a hold of your phone and sent me a text."

"Oi! What's that s'posed to mean?!" Foxy barked, holding his elbows wide from his body in indignation.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Mike asked, squirming under Laura's stare.

"You were screaming like a maniac, dude," she said slowly.

"What happened, lad?" Foxy asked.

The guard drew his knees up to his chest. "I was in this house...it was big and dark."

"Anywhere you recognize?" Laura asked.

He shook his head. "I-I woke up in a kid's room. I think it was, anyway. Then I started looking for a way out. And then I met...them."

"Them?"

"They were like you guys," Mike said, nodding at Foxy, "But they were shiny. More colorful. Looked like they were made of plastic. Like toys. I...I thought they were animatronics..at first."

Laura raised a pale eyebrow. "What were they then?"

"Human."

"Right. That makes so much sense," she said in a tone that suggested the opposite.

"How do ye know they're human, boy?" Foxy asked, tilting his head.

"Their hands should have felt like plastic. But it was skin. One of them...he took his face off-"

The fox stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "Come again?"

"No, no! Not like that," he said, shaking his head frantically. "It was a mask. I dunno how he did it, but it was some kind of illusion."

"What did he look like?" Laura prompted, pulling her jacket closer.

"Tall. Wears glasses. Doesn't smile." Mike looked directly at Foxy. "His shoelaces were untied."

The animatronic stared at him. "Lass. Step out fer a moment."

Laura folded her arms across her chest, pursing her lips. "Yeah, right. Like I'm gonna leave you alone with him."

Foxy let out an aggravated sigh. "I ain't gonna kill him. I think we already reached that point."

The cashier didn't budge.

His expression softened. "Ye have my word, lass."

Laura glanced from Foxy to Mike and back again in tense silence. Her mouth was set in a harsh, thin line and she drummed her fingers against her arms. "Don't try anything stupid."

She moved towards the front of the stage, but hesitated, looking back at Mike. Her face was casted in shadows and her blonde hair was outlined in silvery light. "I'll be outside."

"O-okay."

She nodded and left without another word; the curtains rippled as she passed through. Once her footsteps had gotten farther away and the door swung shut, Foxy gave Mike his undivided attention.

"Are ye absolutely sure that his shoelaces were untied?"

Mike nodded. "One of his laces had knots in them."

The animatronic's eyes opened wider. "It was Max, then?"

After a significant pause, he responded, "Yeah."

Foxy moved upstage and leaned against the wall for several minutes, using his good hand to support himself.

During all this, Mike drank in his surroundings. There were a couple of wooden cutouts of palm trees that were just barely visible in the dark. A plastic treasure chest sat under one of the trees. The backdrop consisted of an ocean that looked like it had been painted by a first grader. Foxy's ship, if one could call it that, sat upstage. It was a big wooden cutout with the words "Salty Sea Otter" written along the side. In truth, Pirate Cove was pretty cheesy.

"So he's alive," Foxy whispered.

"They all are."

Another long pause, and then, "Go home."

Mike rubbed his eyes. "Huh?"

"Get some rest, lad," the animatronic muttered, not looking at him. "Ye'll need it."

"So...you're not gonna kill me?"

"I woulda done it already if I wanted to."

The guard stared up at him in disbelief. "That's it? No emotional speech about your change of heart? No hug?"

Foxy lowered his head, lifted his eyepatch, and gave Mike a flat glare that was better suited for an unamused librarian. "Don't get too cozy, lad. I'm sparin' ye. That's it. Nothin' more. Nothin' less."

"Oh, r-right," Mike said.

The fox sighed. "Just go, lad. Before the others wake up."

"Okay," he said, getting to his feet. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Uh...thanks. For uh, not killing me."

"Don't mention it, lad," Foxy replied tersely, eyes darting in Mike's direction before looking away again.

"Alright...see ya." Mike shuffled through the curtains and down the hallway to gather his things.

As Mike's footsteps faded out of earshot, Foxy pulled the curtains shut again and went back to his ship.

Then it hit him.

"We don't sleep."

"T-thanks for bringing me home," Mike said for the umpteenth time, fidgeting in the passenger seat.

"No problem," Laura said, keeping her attention on the road. She had yet to make direct eye contact with him.

Mike watched the buildings and street lamps whiz past the window. He hated car rides where there was no music or chatter to break up the silence. Of course, he just had to wind up being chauffered by the girl who was allergic to small talk.

Then there was the elephant in the...car. Were they just going to carry on like the events of the night before last had never transpired? She'd saved his ass and now she wouldn't even look him in the eye.

"I'm sorry," Mike mumbled, "for what happened to your dad-"

"Stop."

He scratched the back of his neck. "What?"

"That look you're giving me right now. Wipe it off your face before I throw you out of this car."

"What look?"

She pulled up to a four-way stop sign, her frown deepening into a scowl. "Like I'm some poor, helpless little girl. If you knew what kind of person it made me into, you wouldn't be looking at me like that."

"Well, I've kind of seen for myself how...charming you are," Mike said, biting his lip.

"You don't know the half of it," she said, lowering her voice an octave. A minute later, she asked, "This the right street?"

Mike simply nodded.

She turned down a small street lined with identical apartment buildings on either side. Nothing to write home about, but at least the neighborhood was decent. Once she'd found Mike's building, she eased into a parking spot along the sidewalk. She looked straight ahead, her hands still gripping the steering wheel.

Mike unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car with slow, uncertain movements. Jesus, it was cold out. He exhaled, watching his breath swirl in the air. He turned back to Laura and jerked his head in the direction of the building. "C'mon."

Laura shook her head. "Oh, no. Not gonna happen."

Mike shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. Why didn't he think to bring a heavier jacket? "You shouldn't be out on the road this late. And it's freezing. It won't be too long before morning anyway. Then you can go home. Please?"

Laura was silent for a moment. Then with a sigh, she turned off the ignition and got out of the car. She trudged up the sidewalk and glared at her feet. "Happy?"

Mike smiled. "Very. Now let's get out of the cold."

She wordlessly followed him up two narrow flights of concrete stairs. His apartment was the third one down. Mike fumbled with the keys; his hands were cold. After the second try, the door opened with a click. A rush of warm air embraced him. Thank God for heaters.

"Sorry, I didn't really clean or anything today. Don't judge me," he said, rushing to put a couple of dishes in the sink. "Uh, make yourself at home."

Laura hesitated, then sat on the very edge of the small couch, glancing around the tiny apartment. The place needed a bit of dusting, but it was acceptable.

"Hot chocolate?" Mike piped up from the kitchen.

Laura shook her head once.

"Coffee?"

She rolled her eyes in spite of herself. "Son of a bitch."

He gave her an anxious smile. "So is that a yes?"

"If it'll shut you up, sure."

He zipped around the kitchen, grabbing a couple of mugs from the shelves. "Milk or sugar?"

"Neither."

He balked. "You drink it black?"

Laura fiddled with the zipper on her jacket. "I think coffee tastes like shit either way, but it gets the job done. If I'm gonna drink something horrible, I'd rather not sugarcoat it."

"Oh," was all Mike said before drifting off into silence.

Several minutes later, he emerged with two mugs in hand. He offered one to Laura.

"Thanks," she muttered, wrapping her hands around the ceramic mug and letting it heat up her cold fingers.

Mike sat next to her, giving her as much space as the loveseat would allow. The two sat there, sipping their coffee in uneasy silence.

"Your dad sounded nice," he said after a while.

"He was," Laura said, guard up. "Spoke to everyone he met like a friend he hadn't seen in years."

"He talked a lot," Mike admitted. Then his eyes went wide. "Oh, God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

To his great surprise, the corner of Laura's mouth quirked upwards.

"Dad was...well, he'd geek out over everything. He was a rambler. He couldn't tell a knock-knock joke 'cuz it took him forever just to get to the punchline."

He chuckled. "I could see that."

"And he was impatient when it came to birthday presents," Laura said. "He'd get excited and would blurt out what it was before I could finish opening it. If it wasn't that, he was bad about sticking to dates. He tried baking her a cake for their anniversary. Key word being tried."

"What went wrong?"

"Undercooked it. Then he tried making up for it by putting extra icing on it. It was a hot mess."

Mike's chuckle turned into a full laugh. "Was your mom mad?"

"She was at first, but it was hard to stay mad at him for long," said Laura. She wasn't smiling, but there was a gleam in her eye that transformed her face into something...softer. Her eyes weren't completely grey like he'd originally thought; there were flecks of blue that peeked through like the sky after a storm.

Mike set his mug on the coffee table and pulled his legs onto the couch so he was sitting cross-legged. "What was Freddy's like back then?" Back when Phone Guy was alive.

"It was home," she whispered, staring down into her nearly empty mug as if it were a portal to a time and a place she could never go back to. "Dad would be waiting for me every afternoon when I got off the bus. Sometimes he'd get some tokens and we'd hit the arcade. Those were my favorite days."

Laura went quiet again; the glimmer in her eye disappeared.

"How old were you?" he asked, gazing at her.

"Twelve," she said in a clipped tone, glaring at the opposite wall. "I was the one who answered the door when the...the police came. I didn't cry. I couldn't. It was like someone had hit me hard with a baseball bat, but the pain hadn't set in yet. Mom was crying and the police kept bombarding her with questions and the stupid phone kept ringing. It was all too much. So I told 'em to get out. It was too quiet without Dad."

Mike sighed and rubbed at his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't. I've heard it all before." She drew her legs up to her chest and crossed her arms over her knees. "Apologies won't bring him back. Nothing will."

"Why were you such a jerk to me when we first met?" Mike asked with a slight tilt of his head.

"You're awfully chatty for someone who woke up screaming," Laura said, giving him a sidelong glance. "When are we gonna talk about that?"

"So did you treat the other guys before me like that, too," he continued without blinking an eye, "Or am I special?"

"You're dodging the question."

"You're one to talk."

"You remind me of him," she admitted in a quiet voice that made Mike's throat ache.

"Oh, Laura..."

"Enough of that. What did you see?" she asked abruptly.

Mike dug his fingers into the cushions to keep them from shaking. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"I didn't want to talk about my dad, but I did," Laura said, turning to face him fully. "You're not getting a free pass on this one. So spit it out."

He shook his head.

"It was just a bad dream, right? You're safe. It's over now."

"Is it though?" Mike muttered with a shiver.

Laura's eyes roamed over his features. His posture would droop every so often, as if he were nodding off, only for him to frantically sit up straighter. His eyes were wide and almost manic in their alertness. For whatever reason, he was fighting against sleep. She decided to let it go for now.

"I should go," she said, rising. "I need more sleep. And so do you."

Mike looked away as he got up, too. "Right. Thanks for bringing me back."

Laura shrugged. "It's nothing."

His hand shot out and took hers as she turned away, pulling her into a tight hug. She stiffened at the sudden contact.

"If you ever need to talk, I'm here to listen," he said softly, his breath tickling the top of her head.

Laura just nodded. Her arms remained at her sides; her fingers flexed and curled up into fists. Her face was practically squished against Mike's chest, filling her nostrils with a mixture of his cologne and sweat. It wasn't unpleasant.

They stayed like that for several minutes.

She cleared her throat and finally tore herself away, looking anywhere but at him. "Thanks...it's been a while since...I let anyone do that."

Mike gave her a small, tired smile. "You're welcome."

Laura fished her keys out of her pocket and opened the door. "See ya, Schmidt."

"See you."

As she shut the door behind her, she braced herself against the cold and marched towards the stairs.

Damn it. He was starting to grow on her.


	15. The Gang's All Here

Fritz Smith loved kids.

"HEY, THAT ISN'T A POTTY!"

Or at least she loved the ones that knew the difference between a skee-ball machine and a toilet.

The good news was she'd caught the perpetrator before he could do any damage. She swiftly climbed onto the ramp and plucked the toddler from the "30 ticket" hole. Thank God, he still had his diaper on.

Once she spotted his yoga pants-wearing mother, Fritz handed him off like he was a ticking bomb. "Until the little tyke's potty trained...or you put him on a leash, don't bring him back."

"My son," the woman said with a sniff, "isn't a dog."

"Then I guess a fire hydrant's outta the question?" Fritz asked, lips curling.

"Excuse me?"

"This isn't the first time your little angel's tried this." She stared the shorter woman down. "Next time you're paying for it. The machines don't clean themselves, lady."

She clamped her mouth shut and then sashayed off, her son on her hip.

Fritz blew a strand of hair out of her face. Kids. And their ridiculous mothers.

Mike Schmidt shuffled through the door not much later. His jacket was zipped up all the way to his chin and his hair was so windswept that it belonged in an anime.

Fritz waved. "Hey, kid!"

He returned the gesture with a half-hearted wave of his own. "Hi."

She took in his disheveled appearance and the circles under his eyes with a slight frown. "You look like shit."

"I couldn't sleep," Mike replied, glancing down at a half-eaten pizza crust that lay near his feet.

Fritz plopped down in one of the empty chairs and gestured for him to do the same. "Not a night person, huh?"

"Not really," he said, sitting next to her. "This is kinda random, but I've got a favor."

She nodded. "Okay?"

"Could you come with me when I start my shift tonight?"

"Right, it's not like I need my beauty sleep or anything," Fritz said flatly.

Mike fiddled with the edge of a napkin. "I mean, it's pretty quiet so if you don't want to-"

"Just tell me why. I don't bite."

He sighed. "Foxy."

Oh.

Fritz's mouth went dry. Someone further down the table was slurping the last of their drink through a straw and it was not helping.

"So you know, then," she said, deciding to save the questions for another time.

"Bits and pieces, but yeah," Mike said, sounding dazed. "So you feeling up to it?"

Fritz glanced over her shoulder at Pirate Cove, a lump rising in her throat. It wasn't that she was scared of Foxy; far from it. She'd grown up around him. But she didn't know if she could look him in the eye after all these years of avoiding him.

What if he didn't want to see her?

Fritz snapped herself out of that train of thought before it could leave the station. She inhaled deeply before responding. "Count me in."

Mike's expression melted into a tired smile. "Oh, thank God. I can't do this by myself."

"Do what?"

"I've got a plan. It's crazy, but just hear me out..."

11:45 PM

"You weren't kidding about the quiet part," Fritz said, locking the door behind her. "It's like a graveyard."

"You get used to it," Mike said, taking a long swig of his coffee. It was one of those chilled concoctions that came in a bottle. He'd already chugged two on the drive here.

Then Fritz snorted, the sound like the crack of a whip.

"What?" Mike squawked, hoping she didn't see him jump.

She pointed to the flickering lightbulb at the mouth of the west hall. "What is this, the Haunted Mansion?"

"Heh," was Mike's dry response. If only you knew.

"They should get that fixed."

"Management really doesn't care, huh?" he asked.

Just like that, Fritz's amusement was wiped clean off her face like words on a chalkboard.

"No. They don't."

Mike shivered. Or maybe that was the coffee kicking in. "Wait here."

He went up the steps and slipped through the curtains.

"Foxy? You there?" he asked quietly, searching for a tell-tale pair of pointed ears in the dark.

A few moments later, a tall figure lumbered out from upstage left. "Hate to break it to ye, Captain Obvious. But the H.M.S. No Shit already set sail without ye."

"Okay, then," Mike muttered. Well, it was a start. As long as he wasn't trying to kill him, he wasn't complaining.

"What do ye want, boy?" he barked, unforgiving yellow optics leering down at him like lights in an interrogation room.

"I uh, brought someone with me," Mike said, forcing himself to stand taller and look the animatronic directly in the eye. "They want to talk to you."

Foxy's eyes narrowed. "Tell 'em to fuck off. I ain't in the visitin' mood."

He instinctively took two steps back, but lifted his chin. "No."

"Let's get somethin' straight," Foxy snarled, getting in Mike's personal space. "I don't owe ye anythin'. And ye're overstayin' yer welcome. So. Fuck. Off."

Thud.

"Son of a bitch!" Fritz hissed. She must have tried sneaking in.

"You alright?" Mike asked, trying not to smile.

"Yeah," she grumbled, rubbing her shin as she blindly maneuvered the tiny stage. "Forgot that damn palm tree was there."

"Who are ye?" Foxy demanded, inclining his head in her direction.

Fritz patted the brick wall, searching for the light switch. "A friend."

"Don't have any."

There was a pause. "October 15, 1994."

"Eh?"

"There was a little girl in the arcade. She really didn't like losing."

Foxy said nothing, listening intently.

"When some little brat beat her high score on Street Fighter II, she kicked the machine. Several times. It was out of order for two weeks. 'On the fritz,' the repair man said."

"Aye, I remember," Foxy said, standing as still as a sculpture. "Shook the dust off the rafters, that one."

"Do you remember the first thing you said to her?" she asked, fingers brushing against the switch. Aha.

Foxy's eyes clicked shut for a moment before opening again. "Ye can't win every battle, lass. There gonna be times when ye lose. There be no shame in that."

The lights flickered on and Fritz walked out from behind the ship.

"And she stuck out her tongue and said, 'bite me."

It was quiet. The animatronic stared at her hard, eyes whirring over her security jacket, her oval-shaped face. Fritz stared back, eyes wide and her lips in a thin line, like she was holding her breath. Neither one of them spoke for several minutes. Foxy was the first to break the silence.

"Ye're almost as tall as me now," he whispered, softer than Mike had ever heard him.

Fritz lifted her chin. "You still beat me by a few inches. Damn it."

Then Foxy smiled—not the snarling kind where he bared his teeth—a real one. Well, as much as his limited range of facial expressions would allow. It was in the eyes. The noticable shift into something warmer, more inviting. Like the hazy glow of a fireplace on a cold night. Like the last rays of sunset before nightfall.

"C'mere, sailor mouth," he said with a raspy laugh.

Fritz looped her arms around the animatronic's neck with a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a whimper. Foxy carefully wrapped his arms around her in kind, minding his hook. Jeez, the exposed metal didn't look comfortable. If it was, Fritz didn't seem to mind.

They stood locked in their tight embrace. He hesitantly lifted his good hand and rested it on the back of her head. She whispered something that Mike couldn't make out.

"Enough o' that now," Foxy murmured. "Ye came back. That's what matters."

Fritz sniffled at that. He stroked her hair, occasionally shushing her like one would with a small child. Despite all the sharp edges, Foxy's movements were surprisingly gentle. It was bizarre for Mike, especially since he'd witnessed first hand (no pun intended) just how much damage the pirate was capable of.

"I'll give you guys a few minutes," Mike said awkwardly, walking back towards the curtains. He felt like he was intruding on something personal.

"Lad."

He turned back, grasping one edge of the curtain. "Hm?"

Foxy gazed steadily at him, his face just barely visible over the top of Fritz's head. Then he nodded. "Thank ye."

Mike blinked, his hands tingling with warmth. Damn coffee. "You're welcome."

With that, he slipped through the curtains.

"Michael Schmidt!"

He grimaced as Chica stomped down from the main stage, Freddy trailing behind her. "Heeey. So did you guys have a good nap?"

"Don't you sweet talk me," she said, jabbing a yellow finger at him. "What the sam hill were you doin' in Pirate Cove?"

"Let me explain-"

"You could've been killed!"

"I know," he said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "But here I am."

Bonnie hurried over, ears twitching like a cat's tail as he looked Mike over. "You alright?"

Chica cut him off before he could respond. "It's a wonder he is!"

"Remember the previous boy?" Freddy asked, leaning in and not bothering to lower his voice.

She gave the robotic equivalent of a tsk. "Mmhmmm. The deadbeat who snuck his elusive lady friend, 'Mary Jane' in."

"I never saw a girl come in," Bonnie piped up, confusion written all over his square face. "But the place smelled real funny afterwards."

"Anyway," Freddy said louder, "I'd say Mr. Schmidt has earned the title of 'Idiot of the Year.'"

"Ye be preachin' to the sirens, Fazbear."

All three animatronics swiveled their heads towards the noise in perfect unison. Foxy lingered just near the top of the steps, Fritz peeking over his shoulder. If the pirate was nervous, he was good at hiding it. Then again, the majority of his expressions ranged from "angry" to "somewhat less angry."

Freddy's stare was cold and half-lidded. Bonnie immediately ducked his head, his face hidden behind his ears.

Chica was livid and it was a sight to behold. The feathers on her arms were ruffled (dude, whoever designed the trons put some serious thought into it) and she scratched the linoleum with one foot like a real chicken would when digging for worms.

That made Foxy the worm.

"What the hell are you doin' here?" she asked, words laced with more venom than a rattlesnake bar mitzvah.

Foxy cringed a little, but straightened up. "Facin' the music."

He looked back at Fritz, who nodded for him to go on. "I ain't tryin' to kill the lad anymore."

Bonnie's head shot up at that, accidentally slapping himself in the face with his ears.

"I'll believe that when I see it," Freddy said in a tone that suggested he wouldn't believe it regardless.

"He be standin' right there, ain't he? Still got his arms and legs. Not a-well, there be one scratch-"

"You'd better give your heart to Jesus," Chica cut in, stalking towards him. "Because your ass is mine, pirate."

Foxy didn't shy away, his teeth gritted like a jagged fortress. "I didn't kill him. Were ye not listenin', ye bird-brained wench? Ah, right, they didn't give ya any ears."

"Watch your mouth, you overgrown Pez dispenser," she snapped, eyes like livid purple bruises.

"Go back to the galley, mother clucker!"

"That's it!" The chicken lunged for him with an outraged cry, only to be held back by Freddy.

"Cut it out, guys!" Bonnie cried out, watching helplessly as the squabbling grew louder.

Freddy shot him a dirty look as he struggled with Chica. "Let the adults handle this."

"Oi! Don't talk to him that way!" Foxy growled.

"I don't need your help," Bonnie said, ears going stiff.

Foxy's optics dimmed a little. "Bon-"

"PUT A SOCK IN IT!"

All four animatronics froze.

"Are you done, children?" Fritz asked, glaring at each of them expectantly.

When none of them responded, she shook her head. "I've had to break up fights every so often. And you know what's sad? The way you're acting right now has me questioning who the real adults are."

"She's got a point, guys," Bonnie muttered, shuffling one large foot across the floor.

"Thank you," she said, softening a little. "Now that I've got your attention, Mike's got something to say."

He let out a loud sneeze.

Chica was quick to say, "bless you."

"Thanks," Mike said with a meek sniffle. "It's freezing in here."

"It's winter!" Freddy said, throwing his hands in the air. "Wear a jacket, for God's sake!"

"Hey, where is your jacket?" Bonnie asked, looking from Mike to Fritz. "She's got hers on, so why don't you?"

Mike sighed, raking his nails over his cheeks. "I turned it in."

Foxy's eyes widened. "Well, blow me down."

"Tonight's my last night."


End file.
